


Unraveling

by Atqueinstupracaballum



Series: Light in the Dark [1]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: At least thats what it started as, Biting, Blood and Gore, Collars, Contemplations of Cannibalisms, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Escape Attempts, Escapism, Ethically questionable hunting, Eye Burning AND gouging, Eye Trauma, Fights, Fist Fights, Flower Crowns, Force-Feeding, Gaslighting, Handcuffs, Honey I broke the Wilson, I bitch about poetry for like half a chapter, Its slow and things are burning, M/M, Master/Pet, Masturbation, Molestation, Morally Grey Characters, Most Dangerous Game AU, Nightmares, No magic here boys, Psychosis, Self-Harm, Smoking, Someone has mommy issues, Spiders, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Touch-Starved, Vague mentions of WWI, Violent Thoughts, Vomiting, Weird Licking, William never found the codex, Y'all gonna get lung cancer from all the smoking, not quite masochism but we are getting there, slow burn???, so much smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atqueinstupracaballum/pseuds/Atqueinstupracaballum
Summary: Wilson P. Higgsbury, an unsociable, quarrelsome gentleman scientist is saved from a miserable family gathering in the most unfortunate way imaginable.
Relationships: Maxwell/Charlie (implied), Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: Light in the Dark [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015873
Comments: 37
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Buckle your god damn seatbelts girls and boys this ones going to be a adventure. 
> 
> There will be two parts to this fic. Part 1 follows closely to the plot of The Most Dangerous Game by Richard Connel, a fantastic short story which I recommend reading if you've not. There are deviations here and there, seeing that this is an au, but the core of it remains faithful to its source material. Part 2 breaks away from all inspiration and swerves into its own pocket of hell. Appropriate tagging will ensue when that time comes and all of Part 2 will be bulk posted, like Part 1 has been.

Mr. Higgsbury was smoking with all the soured energy of a man that had larger problems than his growing nicotine dependence. Moonlight stabbed through the endless void he stood under, stars unfurling out, small diamonds sown into heavy black velvet. Sweat gathered in his crevices, tickled his nose, further swaddling him in discomfort. By instinct alone, he sensed that his hair -luscious, well kept majestic black locks- was not doing well under such conditions. The only breeze which eased a portion of the humidity was mechanically created by the forward motion of the yacht as it cut through still waters.

He focused on the darkness instead, eyes scanning the void, searching, waiting, glaring.

Light spilled abruptly out onto the deck, gilding his back in soft yellows. He bristled.

“Wilson,” a female voice called out from the open doorframe. An extra-long drag was taken as his new and unwanted companion slipped further onto the deck, closing the door behind her. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Is my presence required?” He kept his voice level and plain. Civil.

The young woman came to his side, leaning onto the banister. He did not move, did not look at her, and continued smoking. A heavy pause sat between them for but a moment before she spoke, casting it aside with an equally plain, civil: “No, I was just wondering. What are you doing out here so late?”

“There was talk of an island that caught my attention...Looks as though I won’t see much of it, though.” His distaste, disappointment even, was palatable as he dismally looked around, still pointedly avoiding her. "They say that the devil himself graces the place with his hideous company." 

“As I thought,” she did not sound enthused. Wilson’s jaw clenched, calloused fingers tensing further along the wood of his pipe. “That’s all superstition, you know.”

He did not grace the assertion with any answer. Mother nature took the brunt of his moody glare. 

“It is old sailing superstition, born out of fear and a bad reputation for shipwrecks. Ship-trap island, it is all right there in the name. Simple. You're making mountains-” 

"Can a man not just be _curious_. Am I not allowed to amuse myself on my own time, occasionally," Wilson lost hold on his temper, just for one sweet, merciful moment and turned upon his foe. Within his chest a weight had long ago settled, cradled on his diaphragm like a parasite, making friends with Wilson's heart and mind. Denying it led to redoubles in the weight, until the pressure grew too heavy for one man to carry in silence. 

“Well, there’s no need for that…” she scolded, brows drawing up delicately in a show of rudimentary hurt.

“And there is no need for you to take that tone with me!” With each word that snapped out of him, his blood grew hot under his skin, yet the tension beneath his ribs eased, ever so slightly, uncoiling and releasing. 

“What tone,” she cried back, fingernails indenting the banister as gentle hurts mask traded itself for the true well of anger below.

“That! That condescension,” he turned his head once more to glare into the black of the night. “As though I was some insane child. Just because I am the younger sibling does not-” A vicious cloud of smoke followed the words into the air as he was cut off.

“No one is saying that you are insane! It’s just...It is childish, you must admit.”

“I will admit no such thing." His stance was defensive, proud, chin jutting up and chest puffing up. 

a heavy silence hung like wet cotton between them. 

“I’m sorry if you feel we treat you badly because of your...affection, for things of this nature, but I cannot imagine wanting to see something like this, especially on one’s own birthday.” Her tone was lower now, weary, tired. 

“I am a scientist, it is my job to explore what others shrink from. The Unknown is merely a set of creatures and concepts waiting to be categorized…” His speech fell upon deaf ears, as it had before, as it always would, and so he shifted trajectory, smiling sardonically. “Besides, I survived one devil today, why not attempt the observation another?” A sound of indignation followed his assertion.

“That is our mother you’re talking about!” cried his sibling, face tinting red with offense.

“Yes, and I think I retain the right, at this point, to have a few little jokes,” was his reply. 

“You better go talk to her in the morning.” That was an order, not a suggestion, and Wilson disregarded it entirely. 

“If she wants to talk then she knows where to find me.”

“She wants an apology for dinner, as do I," as she spoke she stepped back, arms folding over one another. 

“I sincerely hope you both find one,” Wilson thought himself rather clever for that retort, smirk lingering firmly as he waited for his sister's patience to wear thin and break away. Instead of giving up, however, she was quick to reply with something that did force the smile from his face, and silent smugness from his heart.

“For God’s sake Wilson! All of this was for you, this entire trip was supposed to-”

“Magically bring me back into the fold of our little family?” He finished for her.

“You can’t just sit there in your lab for the rest of eternity and ignore us!” anger outlined the words, stroking up Wilson’s own.

“You’re not giving me much of a reason not to!”

For a moment his sister looked to be calibrating an insult or outcry, but paused, recoiled, took a breath, and started more slowly.

“Look...I’m sorry about dinner, I’m sorry that it ended badly, but we can’t understand whats happened with you. After the war you... Mother just can’t see why you threw away your schooling and ran off so suddenly. It scared her when you did that.”

“I did not _throw_ anything away, I made a decision, one that ought to be respected.”

“But-”

“I can do it and I will.”

“Wilson...You have so much potential, to just discard it like this is...is horrible, really. It's selfish.” A sort of faux, offensive concern coated her tone, a sudden gentleness that sent claws down the receiver's spine. 

Wilson stood speechless for a handful of seconds, sister watching intently as he mauled over responses. An invisible hand pressed his throat, squeezed at his lungs, the tension within his chest pulling taught enough to hurt. Within his veins, his blood came to a boil. Words flitted through him, arranging themselves in retorts, yet only one combination clicked correctly. 

"Go to hell." 

“You ungrateful brat,” she further retreated from him, in the perfect storm of fury. “Fine, have it your way. Keep chasing your mad little dreams, starve away in your lab, spit at us for our concerns. Very well. When you come crawling back to mother hand on foot, do not be surprised when that door refuses to open to you." She made to leave, at last. "Have fun with your ridiculous little island!” 

A mighty crash of door meeting door frame announced that Wilson was alone once more. The silence was deafening, far louder then the yelling had been.

"...Pack of bitches..." he muttered into his pipe, posture sagging. 

Once more, though with much less energy then before, his eyes sank into the pitch black, humid horizon.

“It is _not_ ridiculous.”

For an infinity silence reigned, interrupted only by the hum of the ship engine chugging below his feet and the spray of salt back into the ocean. Wilson stood, chewing upon his lip, his pipe, and the thoughts within his head. By habit, his fingers tugged through his dark locks, as though caressing the ideas would convince them to leave him be. Around him, the world was but a whisper against the back of his neck, warm, yet not pressing. He sunk further, and further, static creeping in over the whisper until two sharper sounds registered. 

Wilson snagged onto them, allowed them to pull him up from his reverie. Color filtered back into the world, the static dissipated, curling back against his diagram. He listened intently and was rewarded with another echo of the noise. 

"The Devil’s got guns ey?" and he leaned forward to see if any other sound could be discerned. One foot went up on the lower rail, and he pushed off the solid floor. Another shot rang clear through the air.

As he pushed up, his pipe snagged upon one of the ropes of the ship and was yanked from his fingers. With a yelp, he reached further forward, desperate to return it to the safety of his palm. His movement was wild, over calibrated, and soon there was no railing to lean upon, nor a deck for his feet to return to, only the whistle of air as he pitched forward into the void.

His shriek was lost to the warm Caribbean waves enveloping him.

Liquid flooded his mouth and nose, smothering him as he fought to the surface. He attempted to yell, but the spray from the yacht’s propeller choked him with water once more, driving him down. He rose again, this time able to garble out pleas for help, to yell at any who might chance to listen. 

The boat chugged on, uncaring and he was soon faced with the reality that he was being left behind, forgotten.

“Damn it,” he yelled, sucking down breaths. Off to the right, where gunshots had once rung, there was now animalistic sounds of suffering. Cries and agonized screams carved the path which Wilson followed as he began to swim. 

Eventually, he hit a rocky wall, and grasped upon every rut and ledge he could find, tearing his hands in the process, yet not caring as he scaled the warm, jagged, solid surface, feeling all the while like some oversized lizard.

At last, he pulled himself onto an expanse of smooth, flat, rock, and dirt. Breaths came in short demand, every muscle in his body too weak to hurt as he trembled, giving a kiss to that solid ground which had saved him. The world fell away from him, his eyelids closing heavily, and unconsciousness cradled his body more lovingly than any other night in his life.

From its proud place high in the arched heavens, the sun beamed down. Wilson awoke slowly and for a long time, he stared upwards to that impossibly blue sky, attempting to comprehend where he was in comparison to it. Every bone felt like a thick broth under his skin, difficult to move and _wet_. 

A devilish growl cut through the relative peace, disrupting his numb revere.

“Oh, be quiet,” he snapped at his empty stomach, rubbing at his face with an almost violent force. "We've got bigger issues." 

Gingerly he sat up, taking in his surroundings in an attempt to gauge said 'bigger issue'. 

Ahead of him, there were rocks and sand, intermingled with grass and dirt, the island's edge weaving its way along. Far below he heard the slap of surf against the craggy rocks below. Jungle rose beyond that edge, stretching to his left indefinitely. Trees, painfully green, strung with vines and alive with birds and other wildlife loomed above him. The foliage was unattended, land entirely choked and wild with mother nature's fancies. 

With loud groans and grumbles, Wilson hauled himself to his feet, knees weak as he stumbled a few times. Blood filtered out and around in proper circulation once more, putting stars into his vision and tilting the world momentarily before stabilizing. With a steady, moody gaze he observed his surroundings once more, glaring at tree and sand equally. A sigh more befitting a forlorn actress flitted from him and he began forth on his mission, saying to himself: "Guns equal men, men equal food, a simple equation. when you put it like that..." 

There was no path to follow, no beaten away section from any of the brush, but he continued forward nonetheless, staying within sights of the island's edge. Thorns and more dense packs of foliage bit at his legs, branches, and bushes nipping the flesh of his arms through his salt crusted shirt. Sweat was creating an entirely new dermis upon him, yet his expression never faltered from its determined glare. No detail was left unscathed from his steady gaze. He watched with interest as signs of struggle began to appear around him, torn vines, upheaved grass, until flecks of something dark began to imprint itself upon crumbled leaves and shrubs. 

“What is this…” 

At once curiosity, forever his master, leashed him up and tugged him into further examination. The trail of reddish black grew more apparent the further he followed it. Flecks turned to splotches, splotches to smears until he could identify the substance for what it was. Dried blood. 

"Whatever this is from surely bled a lot..." 

Whatever it had been, Wilson saw as he came upon the end of the trail, it was certainly no more.

Flies were devouring the still meat strung bones spilled across the earth. It had been fairly large, the dead prey, but beyond that nothing else was discernible in the mutilated, decaying gore. Wilson paused, stomach tugging at the horrid stench of it, grimace multiplying tenfold as he pinched his nose. Careful not to step in anything unfortunate, he began to investigate further, edging further into the gore. As he examined the bones and remains of organs more closely, a hypothesis began to formulate itself within his mind. What he identified to be a liver and a rib cage assisted in further cementing it within his mind. 

His stomach growled, even amongst gore. No matter the state of decay, nor the source, meat was meat still, and Wilson was incredibly hungry. That liver which had given him hints to the identification of the animal was also the most intact, edible thing in the entire mess of a corpse. For a prolonged moment, he admired it, captivated. His attention was snatched, however, as he tilted his head just so, and saw the glint of something nestled within what may have once been part of the digestive tract. Shiney things had a way of luring his inquisitive nature. 

Quickly, yet still carefully, he set about getting a better look at it. A silver bullet stared back up at him, another piece to this gruesome puzzle. 

"huh," he muttered, little more than an interested whistle of air. "This must be what I heard on the yach-" he cut himself off, having raised his eyes to a nearby tree and come in direct eye contact with a human skull. It was stripped completely of skin, clean of blood, perfectly white as it hung from one of the lower branches. A little satisfying click sounded through his psyche as his hypothesis was confirmed. 

"...better you than me…" decided Wilson, staring at the thing with a mix of disgust and wonder. He stepped over broken tibias, intent on going forth once more and forgetting what he had seen. Something, however, stopped him right in the middle of this noble act.

In the soft ground under that skull, directed further inland was the indent of a perfectly human boot. His expression brightened, a new vigor laced through him as he began off towards where those footprints pointed, mind blank except for the promise of humanity.

Minutes gave way to hours.

The sun had set when he, at last, observed faint lights in the distance. Like a splash of ice-cold water to the face, it shocked him and pulled him forward through the rapidly thickening night. All else faded to nothing, until it was only Wilson, his thirsts and hungers, and those clusters of orange light. Hopeful images of well stocked, kind villages with plenty of food to spare conjured within him, hastening his already hasty haste. 

At last, like a madman, he burst into a clearing, and found himself faced with a large, imposing iron fence. Behind which rose one large shadow, lit by its windows, giving the impression of a impressive palatial chateau. For a moment he was to awestruck to further his progress towards potential safety, to taken aback by the imenseness of what he had stumbled upon and the riches he would be entering amongst. Something old and petty knocked deep within him, old grudges and opinions that had served him well in the past. A moment of indecision came over him, pride kicked up, pressing his rib cage for one firey moment. 

His stomach made a pitiful, awful sound, and he felt in startling clarity the sensation of it digesting itself, and the weakness pulling at his bones. 

Survival instincts trumped pride in a instant, complete victory, and he pulled open the heavy iron gate, admiring the cursive 'WC' designed into it, as well as its finer more swirling, extravagant details.

Into a large, lush courtyard he traveled. The soft tap of his feet against the different fitted square stones made him more euphoric with every swift step. 

The front door was just as big and imminent as the rest of the structure, heavy and black, with a metal gargoyle knocker set in the middle. Wilson staired the gargoyle in its angry eyes as he lifted the knocker upwards and let it fall with insistence. The boom of it hitting wood was satisfactory to his ears, and so he did it once more for extra measure.

From behind the door, he heard a pattering and shifts of heavy locks being adjusted within the door itself. Wilson felt his heart soar as he shifted from toe to toe, pale and tremble wracked, looking a little less than sane as the door creaked open and light flooded his vision. 

Once the glow from within the mansion had ceased to blind him he focused his eyes upon a hulkish humpbacked man, pink in the face, bald, small black unintelligent eyes glaring down at him. In his large fist, there was a handgun, which was pointed directly to Wilson's heart. 

"My name is Mr. Wilson Higgsbury," he was quick to say, "I have been thrown overboard my ship... I-I only wish for food and rest." His voice felt wrong to him, as though his throat were made of muddied cotton and his tongue of sandpaper. In vain he attempted to swallow it down.

The man gave no sign of recognition to his words. There was a click as his large thumb set back the hammer of the hand gun, index finger ghosting the trigger. 


	2. Chapter 2

"I mean no harm,” Wilson tried again, voice pleasant only through force of will, “I am no troublemaker, just an unfortunate gentleman. Wilson Higgsbury is my name. I am very hungry."

No change appeared in the man's countenance. Wilson cursed softly.

Behind the lumbering figure, within the well lit, lofty antechamber, there was a great marble staircase that rose up. Descending it now was a tall, thin man, who ordered loudly for the large man to halt his in progress murder attempt. A breath of relief rattled from Wilson's lungs as the large guard moved aside, gun lowering and heels clicking as the new man came forth to the doorway. 

He was striking, though not handsome. His lips took up a shocking amount of real estate on his face, his nose was hooked, and the face itself was long, angular. The youth which all of this could have been dulled by was abandoning him, crows feet, a creased brow, and grey beginning to touch his thin brown hair gave an impression of middle age. He was offensively tall, further accentuated by the thinness of his limbs. Acute black eyes penetrated directly into Wilson through the shadows cast by his sunken sockets. Wilson made a point of meeting those eyes with his own. They were empty, untouched by any expression the rest of his face contorted to display. 

This new gentleman was observing Wilson just as closely. 

“My good sir,” one thin, long-fingered, gloved hand was put out for Wilson to take. "Apologies for Ivan here.” The leather of his glove was cool against Wilson's beaten, sweaty palm as he referred to the man that had answered the door. “Fellow takes his job seriously, very seriously. We are unaccustomed to visitors at this hour." An irony tinged smile twitched upon his thick lips. "What shall I call you?” There was gravel in his voice as he spoke, yet the words were clear as day, sharpened further by the gentle presence of an accent. 

“Wilson Higgsbury, sir," he was in no state for small talk, his stomach tieing itself into knots. He stood so close to salvation, yet could do little more than stand. The man gave a grunt of acknowledgment before giving his own name. 

"William Carter, I am the owner of this island."

"I’ve had some bad luck, you see, Mr. Carter…” pushed Wilson. 

“It is difficult _not_ to see it,” Wilson allowed himself to be slightly offended by Carters wandering eyes as they did a quick once over of him, “but this is no place to dawdle. Get in here," and he moved, making a sweeping gesture with his arm into the room behind. "You will, I think, find that my home is a most restful spot. Ivan here will show you to a guest room. I do believe I may be able to procure some more suitable clothing for you. Hurry now, lest dinner grow cold.”

“Thank you,” he cried out, winded by his own knee-weakening relief.

“The pleasure is mine,” with that he turned away and began to walk. Ivan was quick to follow orders. Wilson scampered in after both men, allowing the heavy door to fall shut with a boom. 

The bedroom he was taken to was large, tastefully furnished in a modern, though admittedly gothic, fashion. Upon a bed large enough for six men there lay his garb of the night, spread carefully out. The silk of the sheets were cool and soft against his battered, calloused hands as he fetched these items.

Swiftly his tarnished rags were thrown off, discarded in a heap elsewhere, and this new set of clothes was slipped on, savored. The material of each piece, from button-up shirt to dress coat, was of the finest quality. One glance to the branding of the red waistcoat enlightened him to the fact that four stitches of the clothing item were worth more than his monthly car payment. 

Though he dreaded to encroach upon his savior's patience, certain care was taken to brush through and tame his hair, slicking it back with the gel that had survived his swim. Certain things, no matter the situation, could not be neglected. 

The dining hall, when he entered, possessed a sort of medieval quality in its loftiness. On the walls there hung mounted heads of various beasts, some of which Wilson knew and some which he did not. In large decorative vases lining the walls upon three-legged tables there sat rich flowers in bountiful overflow. Lighting the entire room was a large roaring fireplace to Wilsons left, as well as gilded fixtures, which spilled golden light over a long, large red-clothed table, on top of which were ornate candelabras and food.

Carter sat already at the head of the table alone. 

Wilson had to pause, mouth open and watering as he gawked at those heavenly roasts, steamed vegetables, rich desserts, and uncorked bottles of champagne laid out for his ingestion.

William Carter initially paid him little mind from his seat, an especially large, dark, decorative chair for the master of the manner, sitting upon it rather comfortably, as though it were his throne. Eventually, however, he registered that his new guest was not coming to his seat and looked back to where Wilson still stood in awe. A smug, self-satisfied grin curled upon the older gentleman's lips.

“As I remember it, standing and gawking at a meal instead of eating it was not an American custom.”

Wilson was quick to shake off his comatic daze, rushing to his spot at the table and sitting with very little grace, more like a beast at bay then a man. 

“There you are," said Carter, taking into his hands a glass of alcohol, "You'll have a cocktail won’t you?”

“Certainly,” Wilson eagerly agreed. 

He hardly tasted his first one, beyond parched from ceaseless walking. Food was soon piled upon Higgsbury’s plate in gorgeous heaps. At once, forgoing any potential conversation with his most generous host, he set himself upon devouring all of it, his stomach empty and chest tight. Carter watched, and continued to watch as food was shoveled at impressive speed down Wilsons throat. The older gentleman ate his food and drank his cocktail with far less passion and in a much more proper fashion. 

Wilson cleared his plate in little time, eagerly filling it once more, stars in his eyes and roast juice dripping from his chin. 

“None of our food has suffered its long ocean trip I hope,” began Carter after he had finished his own plate, not blinking as a sizable chunk of venison disappeared into his guest. “As far off the beaten path as we are, I do attempt to preserve what civilization I can.”

“Not in the least. You’ve preserved civilizations' most redeemable qualities, certainly.” He finished off his second cocktail to that observation in one rather large gulp. 

“I see by your hands that your trade is not a passive one” he slipped from his coat a gold cigar case, flicking it open. He took from this case a thick cigar, offering one to his guest. Wilson took it gladly, having cleared his plate of all things edible, satisfied. 

“Indeed,'' Wilson responded, allowing the older man to give him a light before sucking upon it. For all his appreciation of his pipe, he had to admit that this was far superior. 

“And by what means do you amuse yourself, what profession affords you your keep?” As he spoke he lit his own cigar before slipping the case back from which it came. Wilson liked this question, pride lifting his chin up and lighting his eyes.

“I am a gentleman scientist, sir," like a particularly strong, showy bird his chest puffed out, smile on his lips as he smoked. Carter's interests were peaked. 

“You don't say, we do not have many of those wash up here.” The interest in his voice sounded genuine. 

Something deep within Wilson warmed right up to the acknowledgment, cheeks dusting with color. He smirked, smoke curling out of his lips as he sat back in his chair and asked: “Do many people at all wash up here?”

“Ship-trap island, pal, it's in the name.” he did not seem particularly bothered by his home's reputation.

“The crewmen of the yacht I fell from claimed that the devil himself lurked here,” supplied Wilson. His host sighed deeply, dramatically, a frown casting over his expression. 

“I must say I'm disappointed. One would think they might have found a new descriptive by now. ‘The Devil’, phaw, I've been called that for ten years now, it is so awfully Victorian.” Carter shook his head, distaste further throwing creases over his face. 

“Indeed,” Wilson let his own body relax, savoring the comfortable nature of his chair, “in any case it hardly seems credible. If Lucifer had had such fine cigars and tiramisu...well I might have joined his side of the war.”

Mr. Carter chuckled. The sound was dark, from deep within his chest, more gravel slipping in. Wilson's face warmed. 

“I do try,” the older man said, “Now tell me, does your science support you? Are you one of those fellows who write for journals and beg at the feet of benefactors?”

Wilson felt that odd warmth mounting within him grow as he was conversed with, not just tolerated. Something unfamiliar, but not wholly unpleasant was making rounds in his chest.

“Not so, the scientific community does not necessarily approve of my work. Man is a close-minded creature, I see that you agree. As for benefactors…” he trailed off, the light in his eyes turning somewhat vengeful as he smirked at Carter over his cigar, “I beg at no one's feet.”

“Is that so,” purred Carter, returning the smirk with his own. “It is not a bad sentiment at all, but you must know by now that one must get on their knees eventually. It is a mode of currency.”

“I don't like the taste of boot.”

“Then I am afraid you won’t get many places in this world.” Wilson was a bit stung by the words, a little spark of anger further bittering the nicotine on his tongue. He kept silent as Carter spoke again. “But alas, I remember what it was to be young, like you. You feel as though the world would fit snugly in your palm.You may be right, perhaps it does, but life is a game in which there are strong players and weak players. The strong conquor, the weak submit, but there are certain situations where the strong must masquarde as the weak...” he frowned deeply, brows knitting up. “Not that I am old.”

Wilson smothered his snort with a sip of cocktail. After finishing he nodded to one of the heads on the wall.

“You are a sportsman I take it?”

“You could say that it is a hobby of mine, yes. Do you hunt?”

“Not particularly, a few times with my father. Have you imported things to this island, to hunt, big game, I suppose they call it?”

“Big game? In a sense." He continued on after a pause, seeing the quizzical look which was passed to him. "I’ll tell you this. I did not take to hunting automatically. It was, to a mind such as mine, underwhelming. Might you be privy to why?”

“Hot, prickly, sweaty, marching through the woods with your closest male relatives is just preparation for eternal damnation, in my opinion, but do go on.” was wilson's embittered response. 

Carter was amused at his expense but went forward.

“Hm, there is that, yes. But beyond the physical discomfort, there was a certain aspect of mental disappointment. I had been expecting more. Nigh, I saw the potential that it had for more. One thing about me, Mr. Higgsbury, is that I live for danger, for struggle. Neither of those things were particularly apparent in the few trips I had taken with my brother. It was a real nut to crack, what was missing, and over a game of chess I had a epiphany of sorts. Suddenly, the solution was clear as day, yet I was...indisposed towards the idea, at first. Bigger game afforded interest for a time, they certainly were dangerous. It took me longer to get a handle on them." He nodded to the heads upon the wall. "Many years, in fact. But eventually it all grew stale, predictable.” He paused, appraising Wilson in that odd, uncomfortable way of his. “I am not the sort for plain, commonplace antics. Boredom never did suit me and there is no greater boredom in this world then perfection. All that to say that, much like chess, hunting is only a real pleasure to me if both minds involved are competent.”

“I see…" Wilson spared a moment to himself in order to digest the palatable egotism being served to him, as well as the curiosity now unfurling within his chest. "so what prey do you hunt now, then?”

“The most dangerous there is,” that self-satisfied smirk was returning. Under his eyes, Wilson felt at once like a little rabbit.

“Tigers? Buffalo?” 

“No, all of these are dangerous to a fault, yes, but they act by instinct alone. What makes a creature truly, excitingly dangerous is _reason_. that is the key, reason.”

Between them there stretched a short held but heavily felt silence.

“There is only one creature that can reason,” Wilson supplied, spreading his words out slowly, cautiously. His eyes were wide, lips frowning with thought. “Man.”

“Very good Mr. Higgsbury,” there was a sweet condescension in that tone, as though he were the child to correctly name the color of the sky. 

“This is...well sir this is something, really.” He pushed back from the table but did not rise, heavy with thought. Something morbid tugged at his mind, luring him further down that rocky, treaturous road of curiosity. “What sort of humans?”

  
Carter seemed almost surprised, if not delighted.

“Oh, the scum of the earth, really.”

“That does not much narrow it down,” replied Wilson sardonically. 

“Aptly said, my dear man. See, you have a good head on your shoulders, thinks me.” at Wilsons quizzical gaze he clarified. “Many men have sat in your place, sons of Puritans, and denounced my game as murder.”

“Well, strictly speaking, it- rather, lawfully, it is.” Carter frowned but allowed Wilson to continue speaking. “However...well i cannot sit here as though I've not bent the law for my own pleasures.” The smile returned, wolfish as it was.

“Have you ever taken another man's life, Mr. Higgsbury," everything about him was terribly casual. 

“Outside the context of war, no. It is merely the stuff of daydreams, for me.”

“Ah, so you fought?”

“Never on the front lines, I was a medic, chiefly.” Wilson shifted slightly in his seat, taking a particularly long drag. Carter merely nodded before discarding the subject of war. 

"I suggest it if ever you are offered the opprotunity. Ceasing the life of another man...well it has a most exhilarating quality to it when it is earned." 

"Earned," questioned higgsbury, head lilting to the side. 

"I like a struggle," was all Carter felt the need to supply. Wilson cleared his throat before throwing forth another question. 

“How do you...catch them, or get them here. Do you,” he weighed his words, a soft 'eh' coming from him unconsciously, “buy them?”

“Oh no. That would be so much effort and funds, and for what? follow me, I shall show you something. I do believe you will take some interest in it.” he rose, slipping the napkin from his lap back onto his long empty plate. Wilson followed suit, quick to be led over to one of the large windows across from their dining room. 

Outside, the night was still thick and impregnatable.

“I do not often have to actively search my game out, you see. Ship trap island got its name for a reason. Sometimes mother nature gives me them, other times I must assist her. Ah,” he tapped the glass as a flash of light broke through the night. It disappeared momentarily before, given a couple of seconds, it appeared once more. there was a steady, mechanical rhythm to it as they watched. 

“...a channel," Wilson hypothesized, looking upwards to his host for conformation. 

“So thinks the crews and captains of ships. In reality, there is no such thing anywhere on this island, only vicious rocks upon which their ships are shredded, and they are delivered to me. I take them, feed, them, give them a place in the basement to rest, and Ivan trains them there, ripens them for the hunt, if you will. They are treated with all of the respect they warrant, be assured.” he looked contentedly out at his trap, seeming proud of it. "a nifty little thing, if I may say so myself." 

“Indeed, nifty-" Wilson paused. The shadows outside were moving. Large sillhouettes roamed below in the courtyard, he stepped forward and squinted. green eyes squinted back. “What are those?”

“My hounds. They are let out at seven each night. If ever something, or someone, were for whatever reason attempting gaining entrance into or out of my home, many unfortunate things would happen to them.” there was a pause, during which Wilson was inspected, as well as the time was sought out in the older man's pocket watch. His tongue clicked and he placed a hand upon Wilson's shoulder, leading him back from the window. “Oh, but that is enough rambles tonight,” he called out for the hulkish fellow from earlier. “He will take you to your room and if you’ll excuse me I shall return to mine. I hope to see you at breakfast Mr. Higgsbury." 

His hand was heavy and warm where it rested on wilsons shoulder, speaking of the strength by those unassuming, boney limbs. A warmth spready over Wilson face, unacustomed as he was to physical contact. 

"yes, yes of course. Thank you again, Mr. Carter, you have been a most affable host." Wilson was quick in his thanks, though they were genuine. "Goodnight," he added, still a bit pink in the face as Carter nodded and retracted away from his guest. 

"and the same to you. the pleasure was mine," with that he left, leaving Wilson to follow at the heals of Ivan, who waited at hand. 

it only occurred to Wilson just how exhausted, bone numbingly fatigued he truly was until he was in bed. Sleep came swiftly to him and remained at his side undisturbed until dawn, when he was briefly roused to the clamor of a pistol being shot.

William Carter was already settled at the head of the table when Wilson appeared at breakfast, dressed finely, waistcoat plumb purple and slacks a dark brown, matching tailcoat folded over the arm of his grand chair. He was sipping coffee from a china cup. 

“Hopefully I did not keep you waiting too long, Mr. Carter, good morning to you.” Wilson rushed, going with as much dignity as possible over to his place at the table. Over his plate, there was a metal covering, probably to keep it warm.

“Good morning Mr. Higgsbury, don’t worry yourself, I did not wait for you whatsoever.”

That much was obvious, for the older man's plate was empty spare two crumbs of what could have been bread.

Wilson dug into his own breakfast savagely, eggs, as well as toast with jams and two fluffy, buttery pancakes with glee. No matter his hunger, a seed had been born within his mind as of late, and he hurried forward to bring it to light.

“It is delicious,” he complimented, though stopped as a flinch of ill covered disgust flashed across Carter's face. With a force that sounded painful, Wilson swallowed the jam slicked biscuit and bits of sausage that were in his mouth before continuing. “I hate to ask this, for the company has been of the utmost interest to me. However...necessity calls, and I reckon I should be leaving soon. How might that work? I assume you have some sort of boat.”

Carter raised a brow, looking almost offended. 

“Higgsbury, pal, whats this sort of talk? You've not even hunted yet.”

The fork that Wilson had been lifting to his mouth paused abruptly, pancake hanging in the air as he looked quizzically to his host.

“Hunted?”

“yes, we spoke of this last night, you must remember.” Nothing was left of that affable host Wilson had grown fond of, it was all sadistic smirk and cold, merciless black pits for eyes.

The blood drained away Wilson's face. A impossible chill fell over the room, dragging claws up his spine as he stared into this void eyes. Thickly he gulped, forcing out of a cotton throat: “Come now, c-come, is this a joke? If so it's a poor one.”

"I never joke about hunting.”

“But- But you said that you hunted sailors, worthless men, the- I am none of those things-” the words died on his lips. Carter chuckled.

“And that shall make you all the more delightful to play with." a shiver wracked over Wilson as the purred statement slid over his skin, leaving residue behind. Carter continued without care. “Every game has its rules and rewards, as you must know. If you prove agile enough and smart enough, and I fail to catch you in three days then you may just find yourself luckier for it.”

“You think I’m the scum of the earth?” Beyond all the fear and confusion taking hold of him, that notion sparked anger. Anger that grew the longer he looked at the man before him.

“My my, what an ego you have. Look pal, if you intend to prove that sentiment wrong, I will not stop you.” the condescension in his voice was remarkable in further stoking the fury boiling his blood. “But listen here, I have one word of advice for our hunt,” he leaned forward slightly, coming more eye to eye with his guest. “Don't lose your head, if you can help it. It spoils all the fun." 

From there it was all a blur.

Blood raced through his head, filling his ears with static. There was a pounding behind his eyes. He was walking, suddenly, in his hands was a satchel, but all he could hear was the blood and the drums. He was staring at the world through a badly taken photo, blurred, scuffed, out of focus.

He came to himself only when the iron gate, which once had marked it entrance into safety, was slammed against him and he stood, faced with the reality of being hunted.


	3. Chapter 3

Trees towered. Birds sang. Wilson Higgsbury ran.

It was natural instinct, for his legs to move, even if they were sore still from the activities of the last day, to put distance between him and his new antagonist. It was mindless, this fleeing, it was cowardice in its purest form.

It did, however, clear from his chest some of that initial, crushing pressure, which had threatened to explode as he was conducted from the mansion. It was a lethal sort of pent up energy, a dangerous mixture of terror and something deeper, more combustible. With each step his cells rattled less and less, until it slowed to a hum. Sanity returned, his mind tumbled back into some form of order, a thirst for facts weeding out the mad, orderless terror as he slowed to a stop. 

Jungle rose up around him like a silent threat. 

In his possession he had a wickedly sharp knife, food enough for three days, and the clothes on his back. He looked around, glaring, mouth drawn in a tight scowl, chest heaving silent breaths, searching the woods for any semblance of a plan. 

"You want a hunt, eh?"

His memories eye fulfilled that which mother nature denied. Long ago he had heard about the ways of the fox, in how they purposefully made intricate trails which looped back on itself and darted with clever calculations hither and thither. Wilson glared ahead of him, teeth gritting as he set his shoulders. 

"I'll give you a god damn hunt." 

The jungle seemed endless as he wove through trees, leaving his threads as knotted as possible for his hunter to untie later. The foliage would ebb and flow, grow thin enough at times for mini clearings to be possible and soon after choke itself so thoroughly as to catch Wilson in its tangles. These sudo-clearings were more comfortable then tripping through thorns and high grass, but obviously others had made the mistake of taking that comfort for granted.

There were skeletons.

Sun washed, picked clean, bright against the harsh Caribbean weather, they laid in their final resting places in various levels of mutilation. Some were left whole, or close to it, others were smashed to bits, skulls cracked, fibias akin more to sawdust.

“Better you than me,” he would mutter. 

He walked unceasingly, until dark settled in. By then he was confident his trail was impossible to follow, he was far from his starting point and had crossed over many rough, dangerous, nettle filled patches. He was lashed from head to toe, leg weary, and weak-kneed. Pride flowed through his veins like rich honey. 

“That shouldn’t be too boring for the old bastard.” he hissed.

Through the darkness he looked for any possible ideas. Left, right, down, up...up. The trees. They were packed together tightly, branches overlapping in a fairly consistent manner. A time when he was young flashed before his eyes, when he would scamper up trees, he had gotten rather good at that. Hopefully that old talent still held, without all the broken bones this time.

His hands protested the action of climbing, bark tugging against those still raw cuts and bruises from his wild scamper up the cliff face. He ignored it. In the long run, what were a few cuts? At last he got high enough to feel secure and for a moment paused, exhaustion crashing over him like a physical punch. He nibbled at the food he had been given, bread and water, as well as two apples.

He waited.

The night passed on like a slow, lazy snake. He watched the moon drag across the sky, sureness reading clear on his almost smiling face.

Dusk came and crushed that almost smile with the heel of its foot.

Footsteps, slow, steady, and yet not unconfident were pattering away, drawing closer. His hunter had followed his trail, yet had not been tangled.

Impossible. He never did like that word. Nothing was impossible. Yet he still felt some things should have been impossible as he watched Carter come into sight below him, lighting his way with an electric torch. His entire nervous system was alive, hair rising, skin tingling, heart thundering.

A chuckle sounded from below, he could see the amused grin. Fitted into Carter's gloved, thin hand was a silver pistol. 

By now the man was right below him, looking down at the last footprints Wilson had left. Chips of wood sank into his arms and back as he pressed himself further into them, trying to keep his harsh breathing as silently as possible. Carter was looking up now, branch by branch he came closer to where Wilson was perched. He looked so collected, so smug, as if he knew…

At once Wilson began to feel less like a man and more like a toy. He could not say that he liked the feeling, particularly. Disgust curled in his stomach and he grimaced, throwing lines over his shadowed, wain face as something hysteric constricted his chest like a acidic laugh.

“Hm,” and with that, he was gone.

The hysteric laugh ejected itself out from him as he sucked in breaths, sweat dripping down his brow as he collapsed onto the branch below him more fully. He was shaking, replaying bits of his life back to himself, attempting to calm himself with some of his water and bread.

Slipping down his tree, invigorated by mortal terror and wounded pride he walked onwards, eyes tracking along his surroundings almost manically. Waiting. Watching. His nerves were strung up and screaming, old medieval dissenters stretched upon a rack.

Three hundred yards from the tree which he had fled from, he came to a stop at last. In front of him stood two large trees, one dead and fallen, leaning against the healthy one. His mind ticked, ticked, ticked, until at least a gear snapped into place and he stepped forward.

It was all a blur from there, forward motion, aching, bleeding hands, already calloused from better days works. The sun bore down on him as he worked furiously, aware of time slipping away from him like sand between his stiffening fingers.

At last, however, as the sun began its post-afternoon decent upon the land, he stumbled back from his creation. His feet took him and deposited him behind another fallen tree, moss-covered and rotting, hollowed out on the inside. He took advantage of that, finding safety within. All he had to do now was listen, wait, hope, and yearn.

It seemed like no time at all until he heard those dreadfully light, almost catlike footsteps prowling towards him and his trap, crinkling leaves and twigs.

Carter smirked as he traveled, black, dead eyes scanning the surroundings with amusement. In his hand, there was fit his silver handgun, ready for use if necessary. As careful as he was, he did not at once perceive the trap that he was nearing, step by step, until he was nearly upon it. 

One foot triggered it.

A dreadful groan cut through the thick silence. Yet, nothing gave way, nothing fell as it should have, and Wilson's decent from glee to cold blooded horror was quick and ugly.

With a furrowed brow Carter was quick to inspect the sound, eyes trailing upwards to the dead and live trees set just so. Wilson felt ice thaw from marrow as laughter grated against his prideful ears. 

“Not many men know how to make Malay Mancatchers. You sure as hell don't either, but the sentiment is appreciated.” Carter sounded so horribly amused, further digging fingers into the wound of Wilson's failure. “Keep it up, boy,” the defeat cooled into cold horror as he lay. “And stop hiding in such obvious places.” The click of a revolver was heard before a bullet skimmed a bit off of the top of the log he was hunkered under.

The scream which tore from his throat was not of the manliest nature. Though no more bullets came to punish him for it. Nothing at all came, for Carter himself had slunk back into the shrubbery from which he had come. Silence, beside the patter of retreating footsteps, reigned. 

For a prolonged, agonized moment anger battled with embarrassment within the prey under the log. He looked lost, as if in a fog, mutely annoyed but unmistakenly unnerved. A worm had made its home under his sleeve. The dirt was moist at his back, adhering to his sweat. That log which had felt so much like a safe cubby before felt now like a visual representation of his pitfalls as a man. A prison. A hiding place for the weak willed. 

Cowardice. 

A cold shiver tracing up his spine as a smile curled upon his lips. It was a wild, unhinged sort of smile. The gears of his mind were clicking, grinding, snapping parts into slots they should not have fit in. Cobwebs of ideas were woven and woven until it was a mess of silk resting at the bottom of his skull. 

Silk, no matter how crumbled, was precious nonetheless. 

He slid like a snake out from under the log which had protected him. Not a glance was thrown to the worthless, erroneous trap that had consumed him for so many hours. Wasting little time, the dirt, leaves, and small creatures were shaken from his hair and body, the worm displaced from his sleeve, before he set his eyes to the ground. Like a bloodhound, he searched until he struck upon his prize. 

And like that same bloodhound, he began forward, following where the footsteps of his antagonist led. 


	4. Chapter 4

Carter's leisurely strut had been paused by the sound of Wilson's rapid approach. A cigar hung from his mouth now, a testament to just how unconcerned he was. Nonetheless, he strove to find his pursuer, pitch eyes trailing the surroundings. The approaching footfalls stopped. He spun slowly on his heels, circumnavigating the woods around him with his eyes and ears. The winkle upon his brow grew deeper as an gaurded puff of smoke flew upwards into the air.

“You hunted the wrong gentleman, Mr. Carter,” was all he heard from above him before a body descended upon him from the trees, arms wrapping around his shoulders, tearing both of them down into the ground. 

“Bloody fucking-” Wilsons arm locked around his neck, squeezing, reducing whatever other curses he had to offer into hellish growls as he tore with his fingers at the man behind him. They were on the ground now, struggling in the dirt and leaves, spitting and hissing like rabid racoons. Wilsons grip was relentless, as were the bloodied heels digging down into Carter's hips. With another gurgled demon noise Carter managed to jam his cigar into his attacker's neck, reveling sickly at the scream that the younger man let out. Newly freed, carter sprang forward, onto his knees, turning to face his burned attacker. The older man was no longer wearing his previous fown, smile full of teeth as he leveled Wilson with a amused glare, maddeningly casual. "Well isn't this something." 

Wilson heaved in quivering breaths as he met his oponints glare head on. 

“I will make soup out of you, old bastard, and I will eat that soup out of your god damn skull," the statement came out more anamilistic then human as it was pushed through grit teeth. 

Carter had the audacity to chuckle, to drive his prey closer to mauling him, poking the bear with a stick. 

“That is a rather original threat, I like the ring of it.”

Wilson was speechless for a moment, lips twitching as he curled his fists. Silence fell between them as they measured one another. 

One pounce and a growl and he was on Carter again, vision fading to nothing but crimson soaked revenge and the solid pressure of the man's thin, boney, warm chest as they both crashed back into the ground together.

"There you are boy! Show me-” Wilson sucked his silence in like fine wine as he wrapped one hand around his enemy's throat, the other tearing at the still lit cigar in the older mans possession. Carter thrashed as best he could, trying to shove Wilson off with his knees and freehand. The smaller man refused to budge, squeezing down on the throat harder and snarling as he sat on the older mans hips, taking a drag from his cigar. Carter grimaced as the smoke from it was blown right into his face, a silent, sneering taught. 

A hard punch to his ribs, however, did force Wilson to flinch, and in that flinch the entire world shifted. The taste of dirt filled his mouth as he was shoved over and onto his stomach.

Carter was on him in seconds. One hand gripped his scalp, driving his head down, further into the dirt even as he tried to turn himself away. A knee crushed his lower back, effectively pinning him down despite his screaming and squirming. Hot breath hit his exposed neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“You got some kick in you, certainly. Usually, they aren’t stupid or brave enough to face me head-on.” His free hand locked around his throat, fingers pressing at the arteries. he cooed, tightening his grip as Wilson screamed and tried to elbow him off, buck him off, anything. He could barely breathe, his mouth still tasted like dirt no matter how hard he spat, and the edges of his vision were beginning to blur as his blood was further constricted from flowing.

As a last ditch effort he reached behind him, hand latching to Carters tie. With all the force he could muster he yanked on it. The man lurched forward, a curse spilling from him as concern for his clothing momentarily over rid the need to choke Wilson out. The hand flew from his neck and blood began flowing in glorious streams through him once more. With his second wind, he managed to hoist himself off the ground and flip over. Unthroning Carter from him. He sucked in a breath, clotted with earth, with blood, coughing violently as he forced himself up. Carter was kneeling in the dirt, watching him. Waiting. Confused, disoriented, the world swimming and lungs aching, all Wilson wanted was to feel the man's brain outside the confines of his skull. He wanted to dig his finger into that warm fleshy mess of muscle, tear the two lobes apart, make mincemeat out of it and eat it on a sandwich.

Carter's hair was thin yet soft as he grabbed a fistful of it and yanked, some of it came out in his hand and the wicked older man growled and set his hands upon him. They struggled back and forth, pushing and pulling, shoving away and surging forward. Each time he was able to stand his ground felt like a victor to the scientist, every hit he landed on his enemy satisfied and excited him in ways he had never before felt. Wilsons small triumph was short lived, however, as Carter grew impatient for his own victory and employed alterior methods of fighting. Teeth sunk quick and hard into his neck, knocking from him all and any wind which he had regained. Every muscle rigged to bone tensed as Carter dug his canines in past dermises, mouth hot and open as blood flooded out from the wound. 

It was but a moment, a second stretched out to imitate a year, and Wilson felt paralyzed. 

He was on his back again suddenly, pinned down, legs wrenched open and wrists pinned by a vicious, talon-like grip. Carter was leering over him, pressed so close, so heavily against him, teeth tinted with blood. Wilson could not move, could not buck him off, and could not think straight.

“That all you got pal?” His fingers pressed in deeper with each syllable of his taunt. Wilson was drowning in the smell of leather and smoke, wildly kicking, fruitless struggling in what little room was allowed. His shoulders burned as he strained against the hands holding him down, neck throbbing as blood defiled his collar. With a growl, he spat in his antagonist's face. It gave Carter a pause. A pause was all Wilson needed. With a force that was painful to both his shoulders, back and skull, he reared up and cracked his forehead against Carters. A little cry of pain was heard, he drank it down, shivering with delight as his wrists were let go momentarily and he landed a square punch to Carter's face. He was on top of the world, feral energy pulsing through him, pleasure...

That is until Carter reciprocated the punch.

His vision went white, ears ringing, blood spilling out of his nose from the sheer force of the impact. Cackling was vaguely heard above him as shadows gnawed at the edges of his vision, pulling, pulling...Another punch landed against his jaw, another to his cheek...

He followed the tugs and darkness consumed him.

  
Wilson woke up to the sound of birds twittering. The pleasantness of the sound was dampered somewhat by the soreness of his face and the bloody dirt matted in his mouth. 

With vivid detail he recalled each twist of his body and the suffocating heat of the older man's body pressed against him, hands grabbing and pushing and forcing him down. It felt hot, even for the jungle, even in the shadow of the large tree he was curled at the base of, his sack under his head as a sort of pillow. Despite the creaking of bones he forced himself to sit. 

Carter had put him there, spared him yet again, and that fact weighed on his shoulders as he angrily opened his pack. Inside there were all the supplies from before, nothing had been fiddled with.

He scoffed, throwing the satchel closed before attempting to rise. It was slow going, his joints were stiff and overworked, crying for proper rest, muscles sore from everything that he had put them through thus far, shoulders burning in a way that told him he had thrown something out of whack with his last stunt. He set his jaw and kept moving. Moving was all he could do for now. It would have to be enough. 

He walked. The colors bled from the world around him, light snatched up by the suffocating darkness of night as the sun plunged below the tree line. Night's symphony rose around him, rattled what calm he had clung to. Eyes watched him, of that he was often sure, yet would turn around to nothing. The eyes did not answer when he demanded they show themselves. The eyes were there nonetheless. Hisses spoke to him through the shadows, whispering in tones he almost understood, yet could not quite hear. 

Steadfastly he kept his eyes away from the silhoutes flickering in and out of his peripheral vision, focused solely on keeping one foot in front of another, on survival. A sort of numbness crawled through his limbs, settling like a warm, trance like blanket over his shoulders, cradling him, scraping him empty. Around him the jungle rose, fell, ebbed, waded, and melted away into more swampish lands. 

He nearly fell right into it. One step, then another, but his next landed in something soft, tugging, and suddenly his foot sunk into the ground. His entire life flashed before his eyes like a sad moving picture, blanket yanked from him. The whole world slammed to a halt, his heart jolting painfully as he tugged, with little good, on his foot, which was sinking further, sucked upon by quicksand. 

“Damn it! Damn it!” he cried, tugging harder, and harder still, until at last it gave way. He flew backward into the ground with the force of his desperation, knocking the shadow demons from him. A racked groan of relief tore from him as he scrambled back from the pit of wicked sand. It made a wide moat of sorts, snaking around more of that swampish, miserable land like a river of death. 

For a time he could hardly do more then breathe, the simple act of oxygen intake and outtake enough to consume his frazzled mind. There was knots in his head, like the trails he himself had, on the first day of this hunt, weaved for William Carter to follow. With weary fingers he picked at the coils, tugged threads in the hopes that something, anything, would come of it. Casting his eyes upward he saw stars with wonderful clarity, yet the beauty of it seemed a mere hoax, a cheap trick to lure the unintelligent into awe. Mockery. His eyes screwed shut, dramatic sigh lifting from his chest. The softness of the ground below him recalled to him a memory, an idea, a plan which he dared not questioned as he sat up. 

Wilson was not unaccustomed to digging. In the war, he had plenty of experience digging himself in, when seconds delay meant death or destruction. That was mere leisure compared to the violent desperation of his digging now. Dirt jammed itself under his nails, staining calloused, shuddering hands as he flung grass and other earthly material behind him. He stopped for nothing, no rock bruising his hand, no muscle whining for release, no palpitations of his heart and soon he stood in a trench, shaking, head peeking up out of the ground.

Like some fevered Geko, he crawled from his pit, throwing the satchel off of his shoulders and grasping hold of the knife within. From the vicinity he took down the smaller trees, making spikes from them, as sharp as he could manage before placing them at the bottom of the pit. Camouflage was throne over the pit, blending the trap in with the surrounding land. 

Behind a tree nearby he took solace, with all the expression of a cat who had, at last, caught his precious, crafty little mouse. 

The night limped on broken legs, but eventually momevement through the brush was heard. Wilson could not see his trap, nor Carter, but his other senses were enough to assure him of his mouses closeness. He yearned, in an almost lustful fashion, to hear the man's screams. Every nerve of his body, every small little molecule, was set on the very edge of a chasm, tense, sick, buzzing with a blinding, knee weakening anxiety. Hot bile slinked up his throat. Hardly a breath was allowed for himself as he listened. 

Not far from the trap there was activity. The entire universe was set on a hinge. 

A horrible, whimpering scream cut through the silence. Joy, blinding, feral joy pulsed through him, tearing the breaths he had withheld from him. Unabashed, relief washed over him as he cried out, jumping up from his place of concealment. He turned upon his trap, eager to see the defeat of his nemesis, and came face to face with Carter. 

Wilson went very, very still, pale as a deadman. 

Carter was standing three feet or so from the open trap, looking at Higgsbury with a perfectly easy, amused look. Despite his nonchalantness he bore the evidence of their previous battle. Bruises were blooming where Wilsons fist had met his thin, greyish skin, the shadows heaped about his eyes seemed somehow darker. He looked older. 

“I'd be interested to see what you shall do with the whole pack,” was all he said, genuine curiosity in his tone. Wilson felt his stomach heave, his blood draining out from his body and into the ground below. The sky above them began spinning slowly. 

“...what…” he rasped. Carter continued as though he had not spoken. 

“A Burmese tiger pit, though a crude one...clever nonetheless. That was my best hound that you caught, Mr. Higgsbury." He paused, observing the pit and the remains of his hound. "You’ve proven to be quite a pleasure, I must say. That being said, all shows must come to an end.” something about him was off, Wilson felt it deep down, yet the buzzing in his ears was far more distracting. 

“Whole...whole pa-pah-pack…” Wilson could hardly get the words out, choking around the old stutter of his youth that he had thought he killed, conquered. 

“Yes," drawled Carter, drawing the word out mockingly, "my other hounds, it shall be such a wonder to see what you shall do against the pack of them. This has been a fun game, don’t you think?” 

There was a finality to the statement that further scattered Wilson's frayed mind, pieces dislodged, and he stumbled backward. Carter did not stop him, or make any move at all to attack him. He stayed put and he scowled. 

“Come now, pull yourself together, boy. Do not lose your head so close to the end. That would be dreadfully dull. Be a proper showman and give us a formidable finale!" 

Carter left, then, fulfilled with his business, like a prophesizing spirit and nothing more.

Wilson sat down, attempting to clear his head and sort through the hundreds of tabs that had opened up and scrambled around. His body was exhausted, aching, begging for a release he could not give it, refused, stubbornly to give it. Still, it clamored, and clamored, until he found himself on his back, face aflame with shame and frustration, fingers digging deep into the soft, moist earth, and it clamored still as he watched the stars. 


	5. Chapter 5

Hounds came on the heels of the sun. 

The world was a wet cloth smothered down upon him, dulling the danger of his predicament, muting it to a cold, psychologically damp suffering. 

Above him black traded itself for an inky blue, then grey, before streaks of pink broke the monotone, oranges casting away natures gloom.

Barking swelled in his ears, yet it was detached, like a record humming in some far off gallery. 

His mind wandered, tugged by a memory of his little radio at home, and of home, of all the trinkets he'd yet to tinker with, of all the glory he'd yet to reap. A fuse sparked in his shallow chest, sparked and stayed steady, a dim little flick of a lighter in the dead of night. It was not much, but it was not nothing either. 

It occurred to him, pushed away some of those dark, cold folds which he had settled under, that he had an experiment all set up and ready for his return. Those chemicals and duck were waiting for him, the world was waiting for him, his genius had yet to conquer its charges. 

His time was not over. 

The world snapped into place around him like a joint sliding back into nature's intended socket. Pain came with it, fear too, and his heart began to knock against his ribcage, his stomach turning over as the sounds of hounds grew clearer in the distance. His body was weak, toeing the abyss, sore all over and cut up, flayed, punched, and choked, his position was crystal clear now. 

Onto shaky feet, he stumbled and began to force himself forward, away from his oncoming predators. Faster and faster he pushed his feet, until he was running, running home, running to that damned duck. His legs felt to slow, his body too weak and uncoordinated, and yet the world was flying around him in blurs of green and orange. Behind him dogs followed, howling, growing closer and closer, urging themselves forward with just as much passion as his fleeing possessed.

On his back, his satchel felt heavy, cumbersome, yet his mind began to scratch at the confines of his skull. A tug was felt within and soon he was running faster, impossibly, dodging and weaving until the sounds of hungry breasts were tucked away in the distance. A threat, yet no longer immediate. It felt as though every fleshy gear of his mind was running at full, unhindered, blazing capacity, overheating. 

Vivid images befell him, traps he could make, overlapping like cards, all of them to overpowering to look at individually. At the edges of his vision shadows were cackling, he could faintly hear them above the wheezing, violent breaths he gulped down into burning lungs. Something hot and slimy clogged the back of his throat as his entire circulatory ached. 

He did not know where he was going, or what his plan was now, his mind was to occupied attempting to push faster, harder, away from the sharp teeth and claw now taking up the chase behind him. The ground between his flesh and their maws was growing less, chipping away until he could feel their huffed breath ghosting his heels. 

Eyes dug into him. Carter was probably smiling at this, watching him run like a rabbit, tracking him faithfully, waiting for his hounds to win and for him to fall to pieces -literally-. The thought angered him, pushed him further, and yet distracted him for just a moment too long.

His foot snagged something.

Everything went blank from his mind as he crashed into the ground. rocks and thorns snagged cloth and tore skin as he skidded across the ground, shrieking out a garbled mess of sounds. 

He pushed upwards off his palms, attempted to rise, to conquer. His body failed him. Abandoned him in his hour of need. Curses fell from his lips, drowned out by hungry barking. Uselessly he fought an uphill battle with his own exhaustion, attempting still to raise, to recover, to _survive_. 

He had nearly gotten up upon his knees, chest heaving, every limb shaking, when something heavy slammed into his back. The breath was ripped from his lung as he sprawled back out into the ground. He rolled over, facing his attacker front and center. 

Large black beasts were swarming his vision, like devils that converged upon him. 

Pain.

First at his shoulder, then his leg, raking down his chest, everywhere. Every cell was alive with agony. Hot breath and disgusting drool suffocated him as vainly he made attempts to thrash. Within him, that light which had carried him this far had never burned brighter, even if its glow seemed to split and alter in kaleidoscopes. Tears scortched his throat, clogging his nose as they were forced in heaps from his eyes. Sounds tore from him, though he was deaf to all but the loud ringing in his ears. The world had morphed into something terrible as teeth tore through him, as flesh was forced open, muscle violated...yet there was a duck laid ready in his freezer, far away, ready for him to experiment upon. 

He remembered that duck, cherished it, fought for it, and tore his left leg from the devils frothing jaw for it, shoving another beast from his chest through his shrieks of anguish. 

He could taste metal. 

It overpowered his senses. Metal. Copper. Blood. It was in the air, it was in his mouth, it was pouring out of him into the mouths of beasts. He was a faucet, a tap for these creatures to lap from. 

A year was lived in a minute. Shadows plucked at the sides of his fading, flickering, morphing vision. They withered, laughed, cried, yet did nothing to save him as the world began to fade. gentle fingers carted through his hair, held his head, someone else's tears began dribbling upon his own. nothing was there, he could see that much, yet those comforting, almost maternal arms cradled him as he bled. He was falling upwards, away from his own body, away from the unimaginable pain blinding him, away from Carter, who was coming closer, saying words, then at last away from consciousness itself, the harsh, agonizing world fading to a dark, deep, blissful hell. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it folks, part 1! 
> 
> When will part 2 be out, you may ask? Fuck if I knew.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have loved to have posted ALL of part 2 out right now, but the later chapters are kicking my ass, amongst other things. If I'm perfectly honest I have no clue when this fic will be finished. Nonetheless, I wanted to post SOMETHING, and these few chapters are the ones that are behaving. 
> 
> anyhow, excuses aside, I hope y'all enjoy, kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated!

There was a nothingness to his limbs that frightened him, like being suspended in water, drowning, yet never losing full grip on life. A fever lapped upon his brain, pouring fire and ice into the cavities of his chest, twisting the inner working of his mind and making gears fall out of place. Dogs howled, hot breath slicked his face as teeth ripped his throat open and shred his limbs. Sharp claws clicked, he could hear them as they circled him, attempting to determine the best, juiciest location to tear into.

He was falling. Over. And over. And over. Forever. Death hovered over him like a black rain cloud, taunting him, striking him with mortal terror, yet never giving him the mercy of a final blow. the blade of the scythe bit into his Adam's apple, metal cold and nightmarish, impressing upon him evils beyond imagination simply by the kiss of its razor edge, yet it never dug in. Something was holding it back.

Wilson gripped onto the threads of life he felt within him tightly, until his knuckles were white, until the blade of that Devil Death seemed less present, until he could breathe again.

Flickers of images impressed themselves upon his mind. While walls, dented and scratched with thick, ragged claw marks, oozing with black puss. an equally white ceiling, dripping cold blood onto his forehead. He saw monsters in that white room, shadows writhing and contorting into shapes that he could hardly define, crawling upon him and suffering him under their tongue and tooth. It all ran together like a muddy river.

Scenes of his youth came to his mind: his mother scowling, laying his hand flat against her sewing table and bringing her customary ruler down upon them; his father taking him for rides in the car to get him out and about, often times taking him to the ice cream parlor just a few minutes from their house. He remembered that parlor with uncanny detail, the seats at the bar he would always spin on at least once no matter how old he got, the paper menu that he never had to look at but always fiddled with as they waited for their ice cream and coffee, he could taste the chocolate ice cream he always got, and remembered every time he teased his father for getting strawberry. "It's pink papa, that means it's only meant for girls," was his argument, to which his father would laugh and reply "well then they shouldn't have made it taste so good, be that the case." In an instant, these familiar scenes could be upturned and Wilson found himself in frightening situations.

At all times he felt watched, as though the Devil's eyes were on him, waiting, hungry. There was a tall, incredibly strong man with razors for teeth who came to him. In all manner of ways Wilson met his end to that man's hands, and it felt horribly like a memory, yet foreign simultaneously as the man held his dying body, fingers curling in and out of his lethal wounds. That man was cruel, violent, and Wilson was captivated by him as much as he was revolted. 

A woman came to him, now and again. She was distressed, any fool, feverish or not, could see that. Her hands were as cold as corpses as she held his own. Often she would speak to him, yet he could not hear what she was saying, it all sounded like static, and it was choked by blood nonetheless. She was covered in blood, her own, he supposed, it soaked her shirt front, painted her lips red. She even cried blood sometimes, big grey eyes seeming always at the brink of tears as she clutched him, not unlike an adult keeping a child from out of harm's way. 

It was all so much for him, too much, and he had no choice but to let it pass by him, unable to hold one thought for too long. 

Then, like a fog drawing away, he began to sort through the mud. More and more became clear to him, the difference between dreams and reality could be deciphered with each passing day.

One day he awoke and it all made terrible, horrible sense.

The walls were white, the ceiling was white, the bedsheets which covered him were white, and the only other color that met his eye was the wood of the floor, the bedside table, and the lamp lighting the chamber. 

The bed below him had a distinctly medical feeling to it. Over his skin the sheets were scratchy and below there was mattress left to be desired. Gingerly he turned his head, looking to the right. In the corner of the room, a monstrous black mass shifted from toe to toe, minding its own business, chattering with growls and hisses to its more transparent but equally horrifying neighbor. Within his skull, his brain was still slow to compute what exactly he was seeing, beyond the pain and fogginess of existence. The room was small, that much was clear. The room was also cold. Without much luck he attempted to find some warmth in the scratchy covers, snuggling into himself, only to find that his own limbs had lost their warmth and that it hurt to do even that insignificant little movement.

The corpses of the medical school he attended came to mind, all stored away in a cold basement room, preserved and ready to be split open. Those corpses, he noted, were not usually so thoroughly covered in bandages. 

Nightmares were better than this. At the very least, in nightmares, he felt as though he had life still to lose.

Wilson woke again to the sound of a door. It opened, then closed, all too loudly for his taste. He was shameless in voicing his distaste.

"Have we returned to the land of the living Mr. Higgsbury?" The unemotive, gravely, yet still poised sound sent a flash of something cold and terrible down his spine, forcing his eyes open.

William Carter was peering down at him, a gently malicious smile curling his thick lips, eyes narrowed in amusement and cruelty alike. Shadows were spilling from his back and out of his pockets, his footprints were marked with strange black slime. 

Words stuck to the back of Wilson's throat like sap. That sneer only grew at his silence.

"Cat got your tongue?" Carter taunted, fake empathy rolling like poison out of his mouth. "Poor boy. You've got a few booboos that need taking care of."

Wilson felt a certain acidic mass begin churning in his empty stomach, crawling up his throat and lodging right in his gullet.

"Why..." he forced out, throat unwilling and scratchy from disuse. "Why are you..." the rest of the unhappy question failed, yet Carter seemed to gather what his meaning was.

"I don't hit men while they're down," was all he supplied, moving along the side of Wilson's medical cot until he was at the head of it. Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the older man all the while, forgoing blinking entirely in his absolute distrust. "And you pal, are certainly looking quite down." there was a side table by Wilson's bed, on which there had been set a platter. Wilsons stomach growled at the mere implication of potential food. Carter picked up a bowl, dragging the spoon through it a few times absently before turning his attention to Wilson. "Are you hungry?"

Wilson _had_ been hungry, until he saw what was actually inside of the bowl which Carter held in his hand. 

It was hot, steaming purplish greenish sludge, almost like a thick, chunky oil spill. The sludge was whispering right into Wilson’s ear, threatening to eat him. 

Wilson recoiled, lips turning even paler from the force with which he sealed them. Carter's brow climbed up his forehead, a frown replacing the smirk of before. 

"No?" Carter questioned, his voice seemed underwater "Come now, don't be foolish. It is perfectly good stuff," and he brought the spoon tantalizingly close to Wilson's lips. Something was crawling out of the sludge. Wilson watched it, heart picking up speed within his chest. A spider, at last, fought its way out of the goop, crawling its way from the spoon onto Wilson's lower lip before he could stop it. 

A screech tore from him, terror striking the very marrow of his bones as he attempted to swat the crawling beast off of him. 

They were multiplying, his skin was crawling with them, and the man with the sharp teeth was back, admiring him as he withered and failed to fight against the hoards. Panic seized him, hopelessness, and he could not get enough oxygen into his lungs. Belatedly he realized that that was because there were spiders there too, clogging his trachea with their fat hairy bodies. 

Distantly someone was cursing, yet it was muffled and drowned in the sea of animal sounds he heard and the laughter of the shadow creatures as they beheld the show before them. 

Wilson shrieked, shrieked, and shrieked until he had dispelled the spiders out of him, until he could no longer hear any other monster over his own voice, blocking it out yet unable to forget it, he had to shriek louder to cover the buzzing in his head, but he managed, even if he tasted copper in the process. 

_"...pain in my ass...stop...Mad bastard..."_ floated towards him, before something pricked against his neck and he fell back into that inky abyss of unconsciousness.

Wilson was cold when he awoke. Cold, worn to threads, and so terribly, maddeningly numb. Eons passed as he lay, mind empty, ears ringing slightly, counting the centimeters of white paint across the ceiling. 

Distantly he heard a door opening then closing, but it was only William Carter's voice that pulled him somewhat out of his moody revere. 

"Let us try this again, shall we?" 

Wilson looked to him now and found there were no shadows upon him, and the bowl he was holding had no visible spiders in it, nor was it purple. He said nothing, only sat himself up as much as his weary body would allow and held his hands out of the soup. At even that simple movement his shoulder growled at him unhappily, pain seeping out from the wound there. That pain cleared his head a little, he leaned into it. 

What injuries he had sustained had yet to be determined by him, though obviously, the list was long, given the amount of pain that moving caused, and the number of bandages he could see and feel. 

Feeding himself would be difficult, yet that did not deter him, and he forced his numb hand to take the bowl from Carter, who watched with a mocking sort of interest as he attempted to force his fingers to still. It worked minimally. Still, he spooned some of that broth up and lifted it to his mouth, ignoring that more then half of it ended up on his lap instead of in his mouth, and ignoring how Carter looked like he could have laughed if he so chose. 

Each little tiddlywink of warm soup that made it into his mouth was like a small slice of heaven cutting through his misery, if only for a moment, and filling him with pride. Even if more soup ended on him, or back in the bowl, rather than in him, the fact of the matter was that he was, by definition, feeding himself, and relying only on his shakey hands to sustain himself. Little bursts of pride coursed through him with each sip. Little bursts of pride, and sips of soup, were not good enough for him, however. The spoon, he was quick to determine, was the weak factor in all of this equation. Certainly, overall it was a handy little device, perfect as an eating utensil and a disciplinary weapon, yet in this particular case, it was doing him very little favors. 

He took a moment to pause and assess his situation. 

"Having trouble?" asked Carter, failing to keep the amusement from his tone. Wilson shot a glare at his captor, defiantly throwing his spoon aside and taking up the bowl as a whole, hefting it up with weak fingers and bringing it up to his lips. 

The intention had been to drink from the soup directly from the bowl, cutting out the weak factor entirely. Intention, as Wilson had seen so many times before, rarely equaled outcome. He tipped his head back, intent on showing Carter that he had no need for him whatsoever, and was prepared to suck in many rueful gulps of soup, when the entire bowl slipped out from his weak hands and knocked against his lips, wonderfully warm, nutritious content spilling over his face and shirt front. 

Carter laughed. Carter continued laughing, even as Wilson's face burned with an angry flush, lips bawled up into a violent scowl as he curled into himself. 

"You are truly something Mr. Higgsbury, you know that?" He began, taking the bowl away from Wilson's wet, warm lap. Wilson said nothing, fist balled and expression petulant as he refused to look at Carter, tensing away from him entirely."Alright now, you've had a nice little bath with your chicken broth, how about we actually get some food in you, yes?" He took from the platter a bowl, in which there sat some apple sauce. Wilsons stomach groveled once more, unsatisfied by the broth seeping into his skin through his thin shirtfront and face. He put his hand out. Carter chuckled, slapping the hand away and perching himself on Wilson's bedside. "I would much rather you not wear this, and I think you should agree." The sauce was heaped upon the spoon before he held it at the ready. "Open up," he commanded. 

Wilson did no such thing. 

"You can eat from my hand," scolded Carter as he brought the spoon tantalizingly close to Wilson's lips. Carter held his position for a moment more before determining that his captive had no intention of budging. "You refuse?" Wilson nodded sharply. The spoon retracted away, back into the bowl. "Very well then. Be a petulant child." He rose, and Wilson felt as though he had won a battle. "It is no skin off my back." The battle seemed lesser won somehow, now that he heard the unconcern in his antagonist's voice, and Wilson scrambled to regain that lost ground. 

"I will _never_ eat from your awful hand," he declared, gritting his teeth hard enough to ache. 


	7. Chapter 7

He saw before him his old home, the one which he had bought cheap with the money his mother had given him for college. It was a quaint old thing, run-down, creaky, but it was his.

He walked through it now, admiring in fuzzy details each room as he had left it. It was extraordinarily cold, despite it being summertime in Ohio, and he shivered now and again.

The kitchen was small and simple, stocked with just enough food to keep his mind and body running, as well as plenty of coffee. The smell of that coffee lingered in the air, as though a cup had just been brewed. Over the sink, there was a little window, on which he placed some of his plant experiments. All the plants were dead. Outside was pitch black. He stared at that void and could feel himself being stared at back. The kitchen table looked sadder in the dim lighting, with its single chair and single place set. The drawers were open, there were no other utensils, just knick-knacks, useless junk really, but he had found more need for that junk then more utensils.

He continued on. The living room was equally simple, not much more than a dubiously safe fireplace, a few bookshelves he had crammed in there, and his one single reading chair placed in the middle. He did not remember there being a Burmese tiger pit installed just by the chair, but it was there, badly made and judging him harshly for its cumbersome, flawed existence. The walls were drab, the wallpaper peeling, ivy was coming out of that fireplace despite him having cleaned it a few weeks ago.

Even when he had lived there he had hardly ever slept in his bedroom, knew from the offset of buying the house that he wouldn't. "A guest bedroom," he had named it, then laughed.

He went up the rickety stairs, to the room he had loved more than anything in his life, and spent the most time with, and which his heart yearned to see again. As he ascended up them, the stairs moaned and creaked like trees falling and animals groaning, louder, and more pained with each step. Overhead, as he entered, the lights of his lab flickered like a cry for help.

All of his experiments rose to greet him, pleading with him to finish what he had started. The duck crawled out of the freezer he had stored it in and shook his hand, quaking at him to use his corpse as he pleased, beseeching with dead eyes for Wilson to come over and reap his success. Outside, the wind was picking up, doors were slamming below, echoing through the empty chamber of his consciousness. The cries of his experiments grew louder, the duck nudged him, snapping his hand with his beak, trying to pull him forward, so that its death could be justified. On the walls writing was etched, and the writing was growing thicker and deeper within that wood. 

_**FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE.** _

Wilson felt very tired. He apologized to his creations, promising that the nap would only take but a second, and shoved the screaming duck back into the freezer, locking him up safely with sweet little promises on his lips. In the corner, pushed away from all the lights, there was the cot he often called a bed, if he did not collapse at his desk. Under his eyes there was a sharp pain, the entire room seemed to spin as his left leg gave out under him and the skin peeled away from it and slithered away and up the wall, to the duck in the freezer, who ate it happily. Blood was pouring out of him, clogging his throat, pumping out of the wounds that littered him. He dropped onto the mattress, pale and numb from the bloodloss, mumbling more promises to his crying creations as he drowned in his own crimson life force, decaying like a dead man, skin rotting from bone, bone turning to dust as he was lulled to sleep. 

William Carter was not there when he woke. This was the first pleasant occurrence that Wilson had experienced in quite some time, and so he enjoyed his quiet alone time while it lasted, though his stomach was growling like a devil from the Pit. As he lay he attempted to pull together an idea of why he was here, alive, stuck stubbornly on the planet he had no right to still be adhered to, given the attack he had suffered...He thought of his time in the jungle, the hunt, yet every avenue of thought was a dead end. 

Nothing made sense.

Wilson did not like things that did not make sense. 

"why would he-he save me? what does he want me for...what could I possibly be of use to him for..." he pondered this for a while, deep lines of dark contemplation etched upon his pale features. "no good," he decided, not unwisely, "that devil is up to no good. I won't have it. I'll stand my ground, like-like yesterday! I stood my ground. I'll have nothing to do with him. I don't need him for food, or for anything else. I will force him to let me go. I don't need his applesauce, to hell with his sauces, or any other handout from him. I am a man and a scientist, and I will not be made to eat out of anybody's hand!" 

"Oh, that's cute," a voice purred as the door creaked open and his relative peace was disrupted. Carter entered, dapper as always, holding his damn platter. "And really I wouldn't doubt you, if you weren't still wearing your last attempt."

"I'm- I'm stronger today!"

"Are you now? Lift your left hand." Wilson complied with a vengeance. His hand thrust up, powerful at first, yet...sluggish, heavy, shuttering, and the violent shaking only got worst. He set his jaw and grit his teeth, forcing the hand to level out, or strengthen up. He failed. Nothing happened...His arm was burning now, weak, so horribly weak, and at last, his arm fell. He was seething, copper tainting his mouth as he chewed on his cheek. Carter clicked his wicked tongue, sitting down on the side of the bed. "Precisely what I thought, now, don't make this worse for yourself. All you have to do is open your mouth."

Wilson did no such thing.

Carter unveiled what was upon the platter. a light breakfast, primarily a grapefruit, and other berries, as well as some orange juice and a buttery biscuit. Loud and clear, for all the world to hear, his stomach growled, pinching painfully at the sight of sustenance. His jaw ached as his teeth ground.

Carter spooned up a bit of that grapefruit, holding it up to Wilson.

Wilson did not move a muscle, glaring at his antagonist over the spoon. Carter glared back, probing his thin lower lip with the spoon. Some of the juice, sweetened with a bit of sugar, sticky, slipped onto his lower lip, and he could faintly taste it. It took every ounce of his pride, his fortitude, and his hatred for the man attempting to spoon feed him not to slide his tongue over the juice collecting, so close. Pain flared within him, stomach knotting horridly. A static buzzed behind his eyes, a headache in the making, and it was driving him mad.

He wanted to clear his head, wanted to feel strong again, wanted to be left alone. He wanted to cry. In a moment of poor frustration, insanity, as the pain grew worse within him and his blood felt as though it were boiling over, he swung out, knocking the spoon away from him. Wretched, horrible pain shot through him, enough to make tears fall from his eyes, as he wrenched his left leg up and out enough to kick Carter and his damned platter. The platter crashed to the ground and Carter stood up, fury flashing in his eyes. When he spoke next, his voiced boomed, rolling over Wilson like a truck.

Wilson was plastered to his bed, breaths heaving as pain crushed the breath from him, wilted what energy or strength he did have in its maw. His leg and shoulder pounded, shrieked, every bone rebelling against its existence

"You bloody brat!" He threw the sheets from Wilson, exposing the pulsing, angry leg. Wilson could only catch glimpses of it, finding only bandages, and spots of red. Carter grabbed at it, wrenching it back into its former position, back onto the pillow it had been propped on. Even that touch, through all those bandages, was enough to force a shriek out of Wilson. "You keep that leg still, you hear me. Use your fists all you want, but this," he squeezed the calf, dragging another cry of pain from the now sniffling young man, "this stays right here. Do you have that lodged in your fucking skull you daft little shit?"

Wilson nodded fervently, nodded to have those hands off of him, nodded to be left alone with the pain, and the shame of the tears clotting his throat.

"Good," he turned his back, voice eerily calm, going to the door, examing to stains of grapefruit juice that had splattered against his waistcoat. "Damn it, this is wretched to get out..." he shot one last harrowing glare over at his captive. "One stitch of my undershirt is worth more then you're entire existence, boy, remember that next time." At last, with that final threat, he exited. 

Wilson laid, shaking, the sharp agony had died to a monotonous ache deep down within his calf, the tears drying, yet he could still feel their sticky path across his cheeks. He sniffled, ashamed that he had cried in front of his captor, shown any sort of weakness at all.

"Stupid...always stupid.." he muttered, sniffling again.

For some time he was left alone, and when the door did creak open once more it wasn't Carter, or a man at all, but a frightened looking young woman that entered. She had the uniform of a maid, or something of the like. Her large dark eyes refused to stay on Wilson as she muttered something about coming to clean up. Wilson did not question her, and stayed silent as she did her job quickly. She was like a mouse, he noted, with the quick way she skittered here and there, cleaning up the spilled tray.

"M-Mr. Carter won't be back..." the girl muttered, having mopped the orange juice from the ground. "He sent me to clean. Lunch, to, there is lunch." Her English was halting, obviously not her first language. "Do you want it, sir, the food?"

He shook his head weakly, glaring at the wall steadfastly.

Even now, as weak and hungry as he was, taking any charirty from Carter was a offence he was not willing to suffer. She came closer to him, though not to close, quietly saying to him: "I- I can tell Mr. Carter you did not eat. I can say, but you can..." This thawed some of the numbness that had been accumulating in his chest. He turned to her, and considered her. She understood. That sat with him oddly. It was oh so tempting, give himself food, yet remain to Carter just as stubborn and unflinching...Carter would never know...He shook his head again.

"No, but thank you...I'd- I'd rather die..."

She nodded. She understood.

Minutes stretched on like hours, hours like eons, until he could feel his brain slipping out his ear as a fleshy dark pink gunk, not unlike fresh ground beef. There were no windows in his room, no paintings, nothing to keep his attention. It was purely medical, all whites and greys, nothing sharp or remotely helpful to be seen. He attempted to go to sleep, and succeeded minimally, the ache in his bones, the constant stabbing pains from his stomach kept him miserably conscious.

Every day he prayed for death, misery bogged him, and every day he felt himself grow weaker. Something deep within him, the rawest, most human part of him recoiled from death, terrified, trying to light his chest with the will to keep going.

"If I could live...without Carters handouts...well I'd be king..I'd...that..." that was impossible, however, and so death was the option he was stuck with. Once more he felt the press of Deaths scythe against the sensitive flesh of his throat. "I'm not scared of you," he declared, very very quietly.

Carter came each meal and asked him the same question: "Have you come to your senses yet?" every meal he shook his head, kept his lips firmly shut. Everyday Carter grew more and more angry at his refusals.

"This was cute at first, Higgsbury, let it be known that I was amused for the first couple of days. I thought you wouldn't last this long. I thought you were smart. It's been a week now and I'm sick of it, this is ridiculous. You do realize that all you are doing is killing yourself, correct?"

"I would rather die than be indebted to a monster."

"Oh, how romantic of you, Bryon himself is weeping in his grave at such heroics." the snarl in his voice nearly made Wilson flinch, but he forced his face to remain blank. Carter continued. "I am one monster that you simply will have to live indebted to, for I shall not allow you to die, all of my work to preserve you will not be thrown to waste by your fickle pride! You will eat, whether you like it or not." His countenance grew cold once more, his deadly poise returning as he straightened his shoulders. "So, I will give you one more chance, and come morning I hope to find my warning has gone to heart."

It did not, in fact, go to heart, and in the morning Wilson refused just as vehemently as every other day. Carter left with a severe: "Very well."

When Carter returned he had with him a bag, a wicked looking expression, and a rather large plainly dressed fellow trailing at his heels.

"Do you know what they used to do to suffragettes who went on food strikes in prison, in my day?" His voice was as smooth as a viper, slithering out from between his teeth. Wilson set his jaw, attempting to fight through the cold ill feeling that was slowly twisting his stomach into knots as Carter grew closer, still holding that bag tightly in his grip. He came close to Wilson, setting the bag down by his ribs and opening it at last. "Quite a grisly process," he continued, pulling a metal gag out of the bag. "Awful really, the women would refuse to eat, or drink water, for a given amount of time, and the warden would have to force them into it. You can't just let a petulant little prisoner die, after all."

He grabbed Wilson by the jaw, forcing him to look up. "They would force their mouths open," and he forced his fingers into Wilson's mouth, hooking under his lower teeth like a fish hook and wrenching until there was enough space between his upper and lower teeth to fix the steel ring in. Wilson screamed, attempted to bite, or thrash away, but was foiled at last. Carter was quick and thorough in securing the gag of his struggling victim, forcing his mouth open so they could continue.

"Charming," he snapped, glaring down at his victim, taking no measures to conceal any of his disgust. "Next to come was a pipe, metal or plastic..." Out of the bag came the plastic tube, it was thin enough not to kill him, but not much else could be said in its favor. "There are many holes that I could shove this into, but for both of our sakes I do believe the throat will do just fine," Wilson screamed, attempting to turn away and burrow into his pillows as the tube came towards him. "Now now, don't struggle, the more you thrash about the more likely it is that this thing will end up _through_ your throat, or worse yet, puncturing a lung, and that would be awfully unfortunate."

Seeing that his victim refused to heed the warning, Carter sighed and waved for the fellow he had brought with him to come forth. The man was on Wilson in seconds, one large hand forcing him to sit up and face Carter, the other grasping his jaw, much like Carter had before, keeping his head as steady as possible.

Tears were burning the corners of Wilson's eyes, saliva choking him and sliding through the gag as Carter clasped a hand over his cheek, raising his hand, aiming that damned tube. Wilson attempted to shrink back as it came towards him, yet ran into the thick mass of the guard holding him.

One tear dripped down his cheek, and he closed his eyes, and suddenly he could not breathe. The tube, thin enough not to kill, yet not thin enough at all stretched his throat as it was forced in. Like some demented snake, it went down, and down, uncaring of the forces of his throat mechanics trying to stop it, uncaring the Wilson was wheezing like a dead fish. He was being opened up, cracked like an egg. Copper tainted his tongue and the saliva dripping down his chin was tainting with frothy blood. Carter kept going, hardly looking pleased himself. Inch by horrible inch he was entered, violated, forced to take that damn foreign object deeper and deeper, deeper than any solid should ever go into a human body. Even with his eyes closed he was still sobbing, even if there was no breath left to heave in his tight chest, and even with his eyes closed, he could feel the world spinning, fading from between his fingers as his lungs burned. 

Death was close, breathing down his neck, practically holding him at this point, and he welcomed it with opened arms. Death was better than this. _Anything_ was better than this torture.

With one last violent shove, the tube found its way into his stomach, and suddenly Wilson could breathe. Not much, he had to be very, very careful, and it hurt, but what little air he managed to vacuum in was enough to keep him tethered onto the planet. He considered holding his breath and waiting to suffocate. He promptly forgot the thought, and every other thought, and the ability to think, when he felt something sliding down the tube.

Soup perhaps. Slop. It did not matter. 

More tears dampened his eyelashes as the totality of his failure came upon him. Food filled his belly, forced there by his antagonist's own hand. Nasua, the need to gag out the thing in his throat, and the slop now filling his stomach, nearly overwhelmed him, yet he could not. The necessary muscles needed for vomiting were being blocked, forced to stay open for the tube. Every second that passed was more horrible than the next, and Wilson crumbled, feeling himself being fed poisons, trash, the physical embodiment of his failures as a man. Most of all, he felt vulnerable, so horribly vulnerable, and weak, weaker than ever before. His position was clearer to him than ever.

Carter was in control.

Wilson had no choice but to submit, to feed from his hand. Disrobing himself of his dignity was not a choice, but a necessity. Every cell was under Carter command, every stretch of skin was under his dominant hands and one way or another Wilson would simply have to conform.

Mucus entered his lungs from his sinuses, he coughed, or wheezed, and pain bolted through him, more blood frothing up and out, dripping down his chin.

Carter force-fed him for what felt like an entire eternity until two bowls of the slop had been emptied and Wilson felt full, painfully full, in fact, so ready to vomit. That mercy was not given to him, however. Carter kept him in that damnable position for another half hour, never speaking, until he was sure that Wilson had soaked in all the nutrients, and was at no risk of dispelling it before his body could use it.

Slowly, almost gently, the tube was removed, slid out, and discarded back into the bag it had come from, the guard was waved away from Wilson as well, who was barely conscious.

Without anybody holding him up, he collapsed completely, falling upon his bed and letting out such a wretched sob, even Carter's pale face twisted with something almost like guilt. _Almost_. Wilson sucked in breaths with great pain, his throat feeling like it had been skinned, spitting blood out onto the sheets as he cried, and shook, and at last fell completely unconscious.

When he woke, it was too new pains in new places, not just his leg and shoulder, but now his abused throat. His lips were horribly chapped, adhered together but dried spit and old blood. Each breath was ragged like his trachea had little knives embedded in it. His insides had been carved out and thrown away. He was hollow as he opened his weary eyes.

Carter was there, waiting on a chair he had brought in. Legs crossed, arms folded, a platter on his lap, and a scowl on his lips. He looked paler than usual, his black eyes not as empty...he looked troubled. Wilson stared at him. He stared back. Neither of them blinked.

"Are you going to behave now," his voice was lower than Wilson had ever heard it, something in it was tired, almost as though he were legitimately asking.

neither of them breathed. Not a sound was heard, the silence was thick.

Wilson nodded slowly.


	8. Chapter 8

"Good." He said and sounded legitimately relieved as he took the breakfast from its tray. He rose, sitting next to Wilson on the bed, taking up the orange juice. Wilson did not even attempt to reach for it, to weak, to damnedly tired to do anything as the cold glass pressed his dry lips. "Drink slowly," was his orders. He obeyed, allowed the liquid to be tipped into his mouth. His dehydrated body took over for him, sucking the juice down, ignoring the burn of his throat and the ache each swallow drove deeper. It was the most pleasurable thing in the world, that orange juice, even if he felt like a babe being bottle fed.

That shame only increased as the glass was taken away, now empty, and a spoonful of oatmeal replaced it. The spoon kissed his bottom lip, he let it sit there for only a moment before opening up for it.

Nothing felt like anything. The color had faded from his vision. Any embarrassment or offense he felt was far away, merely an echo in a cavern. There were no sparks within him, just eerier quiet as his body performed the mechanical acts of taking in food. Eventually, the scene began to dull around him, until all there was the spoon, the food, and Carter's hand.

It would have been easy, were it not for the burn that was building under his ribs.

"After you finish your meal you will be receiving a sponge bath. I suggest you shave and do whatever else is necessary in the bathroom while you are there...You are beginning to look like a caveman, I'm afraid."

He did not wish to know what he looked like, had rather forget about his temporal form altogether. It was useless anyhow. Still, he nodded, uncaring, belly carved out like those stupid pumpkins that his mother forced him and his sister to gut and decorate for their stoop in October...He remembered how his sister would always make it a competition of whose pumpkin was the most aesthetically pleasing, and how she would always win, and how his father, when that poor bastard was still alive, would console him by saying that he was a doctor, not an artist. Wilson smiled at that, just a little, wheezing an unhealthy sounding chuckle. "N-nuh-now I'm neither...now I'm..."

"Hey pal, stay with me," a voice broke through the reverie, shifting through the fog that had befallen him. Wilson startled, blinking, looking up into Carters dead eyes. "Just focus on these last few bites." And Wilson found himself obeying, too tired to do otherwise. Physically, now that he had actual sustenance filtering through his cells, he felt more whole, more human than he had since he had woken in this bed, yet everything dragged behind with limping steps. "There you are. All finished. Was that so hard?" Wilson shook his head despite the tightness of his rib cage. "See, I'm a perfectly fair man, if you don't fuss you come out far better. Now..." he put the tray and the empty bowls to the side, observing Wilson as though he were a puzzle to be fiddled with. "Are you prepared for a thorough scrubbing down?"

Carter was shockingly warm as he cradled Wilson up in his arms. Boney, yes, yet it was unmistakable...warm. His stomach twisted into knots. Carter was treating him so nice, and gentle, with some level of bedside manner. Somehow, his caring touches and warm embrace were leagues worse than his reprimands and violent hands.

He was brought to a large, though still cold and plain bathroom, where a tub was filled for him. Over the tub, there was laid a bench. He was placed upon it, leg kept dry as it hung over the bathtub. A man came in then, who he hardly even looked at, and began stripping Wilson of his clothes.

Carter left after a prolonged moment.

Wilson was left in his undergarments for decency's sake. The water was blissfully warm as it was administered to him by a washcloth. As Carter promised, the scrubbing was thorough, nearly all of his crevices were cleaned up, all of the blood and sweat and saliva from days past disappearing. The man was careful of his bandages, yet gave no expression or alteration of mood throughout the entire process. Wilson was grateful for that.

His hair was given a good washing through, to his immense relief, and wrapped up in a fuzzy towel.

As he was dressed in new loose pajamas he felt more human, more connected to his physical body....that was not necessarily a good thing. There were not many good things to be had with that body.

He grew overcome with the burning shame that had been a mere echo as Carter fed him, hatred, pride, all of those things swelled upwards like a roaring tide. An inferno sizzled in his blood as he was shaved. Existed still as he was left leaned against the large marble counter to finish any other bowel related business he may have.

The bathroom did not have much of use within it, much like his room, yet it did have one thing. With careful yet quick fingers he rustled through the shaving kit that had been brought in. Stealing the razor that had been used upon him would be obvious, but thankfully they had spares tucked away.

It occurred to him that he could slit his throat now, bring his own end to things, take control of the situation. The weight of the razor blade in his hands, the harrowing reflection of his own self staring back at him, it was all so very tempting.

Something in him recoiled, snarled and snapped its teeth at the idea.

**_COWARD._ **

It glared at him, etched into the large mirror in front of him. He flinched, stung, scowling and shaking his head, looking down at the razor in his hands.

"'M not a coward..." he wheezed to himself, throat like sandpaper, pain on the heels of his hoarse croak. The etching seemed now to glower, grow darker, larger, before blinking out altogether. 

A knock rapped against the bathroom door, warning him that time was low.

"I-I am done," he called, slipping the blade into his pocket. Carter entered, observing that he looked and smelled significantly less like a New York sewer rat, before hoisting him up once again.

Wilson was returned to his bedding, and all the while the blade was like a cold fire in his pocket.

He refused to slit his own throat, but Carter's would look so much better in slices. If he leveled the blade right, he could gouge those cruel, merciless eyes right from their sockets, or cut away the bastard smile, rip out his slimy tongue and feed it all to his hounds.

He kept himself at bay, however. He was weak, his good arm hindered with a bad shoulder. So, he allowed himself to be tucked back into bed, allowed himself to be nursed. Allowed it because it would all be worth it soon.

Carter left then, and he was allowed to simmer in his silent, deadly rage. Over and over he imagined to himself with wondrously vivid details how Carter would look carved up. Perhaps like a chicken, head cut off and body still twitching as he hung upside down, perhaps like cows and chickens, skinned and hanging, nothing but ribs ready to get devoured.

William Carter returned at last with a plate in his hands, after a countless handful of minutes. 

"I hope we can continue the trend set by this morning, for both of our sakes," he said, as though Wilson were a child in a principle's office. Carter sat quickly, taking a delicious looking potato, which was lathered in all sorts of good things, and held it up for his ingestion. Wilson made a decision, then, one which solved a few of his issues at once, at least in the short term. 

He glared at the older man steadily before sighing, faking defeat, even some meekness before leaning forward to take his first bite. Carter watched with the utmost satisfaction until his wrist was grabbed viciously and suddenly the potato was gone. 

"What in-" he yanked his hand away, looking with a mix of horror and anger as he watched Wilson chew on an impossible amount of spud. "How did you- spit that out you unmannered riff-raff!" As a response, Wilson swallowed as much as he could in one painful gulp before spitting the remaining morsel out right onto Carter's waistcoat and face with a self-satisfied, victorious snarl.

There was a very long, very lethal silence as Carter examined the mess on his clothes.

"Suit yourself," he, at last, said, voice cold and detached, and then he disappeared into the hall. 

Wilson attempted not to let fear creep into his victory and instead focused on the satisfaction.

Carter returned with a wet rag and a bucket.

"Clean up your mess you fucking brat," the older man snarled.

"Fine," and he put his hand out for the rag. Carter gave him a loathful smile.

"Oh no, this isn't for you. It came out of your mouth and into your mouth it shall return." Carter leaned over him then, so that his waistcoat was somewhat within licking distance and he was leaning heavily upon the frame of the bed. 

"Excuse me," Wilson said incredulously, eyeing the stains on the waistcoat.

"You heard me, start licking, bitch."

Disgust swam within him, tightening his newly nourished stomach. Still, he steeled himself and leaned upwards, there were worse things to have to lick off this man. Fingers wove tightly, threateningly through his thick curls as he began to prob his tongue over the largest stain on the waistcoat. His face was hot with hatred at the degradation and the oddity of it, but he worked through it nonetheless.

He made a quick job of it, but made sure it was an acceptable one before attempting to back away.

"You missed a spot," Carter said. Wilson narrowed his eyes, yet he could see no extra spillage in front of him. To aid his search, Carter shifted, bowing in such a way that they were face to face, glaring one another down the nose. 

There was still mashed liquid potato running down the devil's face.

Wilson blanched a shiver running through him at the very thought of laying his tongue on this horrible man's skin. His hair was yanked upon until his lips were ghosting his warm, soft, thin flesh. 

"Don't dilly dally, you earned this."

Wilson took a deep breath, swallowing back the bile that threatened to come up, closed his eyes -as though that would make it any better- and then lowered his tongue down onto Carter's lower lip, where the trail ended. His skin was hot, too hot, Wilson thought as he dragged his tongue up over the older man's high cheekbones, feeling ever sicker the longer the contact held.

Carter, thankfully, did not seem to be reaping much pleasure from this. At the very least, he wasn't smiling anymore, disgust clear on his face. 

As he disengaged, swallowing his own spittle back down, his heartbeat uncontrollably in his ear. They glared at each other, faces far, far too close, breaths mingling.

"Absolutely charming," Carter spit sarcastically, shoving Wilson around until he sitting up, trash can on his lap, head bent down over it. "Now, spit it out," Carter commanded.

"You fed it to me, bastard," snapped Wilson, glaring through his lashes. 

"Well, you've lost your right to it, eating like a damned madman. So give it back, then we're going to try that again from the top."

"I can't just-" he was silenced by fingers jamming themselves into his mouth. His face went scarlet as the fingers probed and delved deeper into his warm, leather scraping against his moist tongue. Deeper still they went until they hit the back of his throat and began probing.

"Good thing humans have a handy little reflex...where the bloody hell." Wilson gagged. "There it is," and he pressed harder.

Wilson attempted oh so hard to keep it down, to hold onto the food he had snatched up, yet couldn't stop gagging, feeling that horrible tug in his stomach, until it all came up again. He vomited into the trash can, held still by Carter as he wretched. "I can do this all day if we must, until you get this lesson down pat in your thick skull."

"You know," he spit after everything had been dispelled from him, sucking in a rattling breath. "I think," he huffed, and puffed, before forcing himself to continue as he lay back onto the bed. "I think I like that woman's bedside manners far more than yours. Who was she, anyhow?"

"Woman? No woman, spare the maid, has been here." Carter put aside the trash bin with equal parts revulsion and confusion, picking up a bowl of fruit from the tray.

"Are you sure," pressed Higgsbury, remembering with some amount of clarity her gentle, cold touch, and the sadness of her eyes as they observed him. 

"There are no other women here, spare those which I employ." There was no malice or disgust in his voice, just cold hard fact as he placed a strawberry within biting distance of his prisoner. "You must have hallucinated her. Now, let's try this again. You will eat from my hand, and do so like the gentleman you claim to be, do you understand?"

Something panged in his chest, something stupid, irrational, yet he felt the cool press of her hand slipping through his hair...It was the last little string of affection he had gotten since he had awoken, and before that..Wilson swallowed the bitterness from his mouth and leaned forward, nabbing the strawberry down to Carter's fingertips. Carter allowed it, though sighed.

"I thought...I don't know, maybe you had a wife, a daughter, a whore, something..." muttered Wilson. Carter scoffed. 

Another strawberry was fed to him.

"Because I am obviously that sort that have women flocking to him." The sarcasm in his voice nearly made Wilson laugh, just a little. "I assure you MR. Higgsbury, nothing of the sort is happening, whores smartly knew to run from me, I have no children, and as for wives..." Another strawberry was fed to him, "it is of no concern to you, however, whether or not I have any one of those things. focus on your food, not whatever mad fever mirages you may have seen." 

Now it was a grape being held up to him, and Wilson screwed his lips in disgusts. "I hate grapes."

Carter rolled his eyes, popping the grape into his own mouth before feeding Wilson a slice of peach, saying as he did so: "picky. I tried to hunt a woman once, you know." Wilson raised a brow, listening. "It's rare that they happen upon my island, but one did, and she did not even make it through dinner before she was screaming her head off at me. It was no fun at all, finally, I put the girl down...it was for the best, really," Carter seemed lost in thought for a moment, saying vaguely, "She looked awfully..." he snapped from his revere, jamming another peach into Wilson before rising, "...Awfully like someone I knew, once." with that he hurried onwards to a new subject. "I have something I wish for you to see. It may help to clarify your position in all of this." 

With haste he put the empty fruit bowl aside and came to the foot of Wilson bed, moving the sheets aside to view Wilson's bad leg. 

At once Wilson remembered the razor blade. He could feel it, pressed against his leg, cold and comforting, yet frightening. There would be no good reason for Carter to find it, or notice it, the fear was irrational, but it was there none the less. 

Carter continued on his way, scooting Wilson's left pant leg up, exposing red-tinted bandages. "Tonight I will have to change these," muttered Carter, mostly to himself. "You bleed an awful lot," it almost sounded like a compliment, instead of a reprimand. Something uncomfortable did a roll in Wilson's stomach as he watched Carter's expression as he undid his bandages. Carter met his eyes after a moment.

"Well go on," he demanded, "Look down! You aren't squeamish are you?" there was mocking in that tone. Wilson was defiant towards it, though still nervous, and so forced himself to look at the wound he had sustained.

Previously it had occurred to him that Carter was overdramatizing the injuries he had. That if he needed to, he could force himself to limp his way out of here.

 _No_.

It was bad. His calf was a mess of blood, muscle, bone, and lacerated flesh. Some of it was beginning to clot, but the overall shape of his tendons was...Horror crept up his spine, sickness pressing against his belly, his ribs, forcing him not to breathe or to blink. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. "My-my gastrocnemius isn't...isn't in place...it severed from the b-bone, the soleus. I needed that! why didn't you-"

"Large chunks of it are inside of my hounds, one of them at least. If I could have reattached anything I would have." Despite the severity of his tone, Wilson had trouble believing that. "You are lucky this thing is still attached at all."

"Well it won't do me much good now," and an unhealthy laugh spilled from him, a mad giddiness choking him for a moment, sorrow on the heals of it.

"Would you prefer me to amputate it," his grip on Wilson's ankle tightened like a warning, his voice tight. A chill settled in Wilson's gut and he found himself declaring in feeble notes: "I would prefer you have let me die!"

The air was very thick with a silence that made his skin crawl.

"Why...why didn't you let me die?" he demanded, eyes blazing. "Why am I still here. I lost your stupid sadistic game! I just want to know _why?_ "

A careful finger stroked from his knee downwards to the bloodied bite marks on his leg. He flinched violently, pain delivered from even that small contact. "You ask an awful lot of questions. But I suppose you scientific men can't help it, so I won't come down to harshly upon you." Suddenly the finger stopped over where his muscle was exposed, though clotted over. Gently the finger pressed down. Wilson forced his whimper back down into his throat. "In fact I'll even answer one of them." The finger kept pressing, and pressing, breaking the layer of clotted blood. Wilson couldn't hold back his scream as the finger went knuckle deep into him. Carter smiled a horribly amused grin, jamming another finger into the wound and curling.

Tears fell down Wilson's face as he screamed, and screamed, back arched, every muscle taut. he attempted to kick with his good leg, but found it held firmly down by carter. suddenly he was begging.

"Please-" he choked, crying to the high heavens as the pain rippled through him. Suddenly he could feel the dirt under him again, the fear, the feeling of hot breath huffed over his trembling body. Tooth, claw, hounds baying- "Stop! stop! please. _GET OFF OF ME!_ "

 _"I'm not bored yet,"_ and suddenly the world shifted on its axles. the pain ebbed away, the hands on him disappeared. Carter voice reeled him out of the memory. There were no hounds on him, but there was a wolf looking at him keenly from the end of the bed. Carter was smiling still, stroking the ankle of his good leg calmly as he held his two fingers up. Wilson wanted to vomit, heaving in harsh breaths as he blinked, attempted to fight his way back to reality.

Reality was not much better than fantasy.

"What," he croaked. the room was spinning gently. Carter patted his ankle one last time before focusing on the two fingers up he had up. They were gloved, of course, and glittering with the blood of the man watching in horror.

"You haven't bored me yet." He repeated, casual as always as he slipped the two fingers into his mouth. Wilson failed to comprehend what exactly he was seeing as his own blood was sucked off the older man's fingers, drank down by Carter, enjoyed, by the looks of it. The two long fingers came out again, and it was as though he had sampled icing off of a cake. "mmm," was all he had to say on that. With that, he went about re-bandaging Wilson's calf. He was so gentle, so caring, it made Wilson reconsider his vow not to take his own life with the blade. "I've never felt inclined to keep any of them, you know, not like this. You are the first."

"K-keep?" he hadn't stuttered in years, he had purged it from his system, he thought, yet here he was.

"Are you deaf? That is indeed what I said. You thought I was going to let you go on your merry way after you're all patched up?"

"I-I...I don't know what I thought..." and he looked down, down to his lap, down to the razor in his pocket. "I won't tell anyone...no one would listen to me anyway, I have no friends, my family hates me, I hate everyone I- I would just go home. i- I wouldn't call the police or anything, I don't like the police..."

"Well we have one thing in common there, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you go," He finished with the bandages, rising up again. "A good master doesn't let his most promising pet go to rot, after all." 

Something dangerous was coiling around Wilson. His face was warming, his heart was warming, yet he fought against that dangerous tide. "I am not some _dog_!" 

**_He thinks you're promising. He sees something in you._ **

The voice wasn't real, he knew, there was no one in the room but him and the devil before him.

**_No one has EVER seen anything in you._ **

That did not make its truth sting any less.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another four chapters of Wilson suffering for all of our enjoyment! Will this unfortunate science lad ever be happy?

"Tell me, Wilson," carter began, rising as he finished dressing his captives leg, "what do people often do when their domestic life becomes dull, when everything seems dangerously monotonous and there isn't much for them to talk to in their quarters, dare I ask what people do when they want some companionship but can't bear to deal with a spouse? Why they go to the local pound and they get a pet." His smile made Wilson want to throw up. "Well, there is no local pound here, nor does going ashore interest me, and while cats can be perfectly good fellows when they wish to be, I loath how they shed." He leaned forward, obviously taunting Wilson as he asked: "you don't shed, do you, Wilson?"

Wilson ground his teeth to dust, glaring with disgust and horror alike at the vile man's words. Carter, to this silent but stern show of defiance, did not take kindly. 

"You've delivered me to my next point,'' suddenly Wilson’s hair was grabbed, scalp tugged painfully in the man's grip, forcing him to bend his head upwards to meet his eye. “You will treat me with the respect due to a master and call me nothing else but that until I allow you to do otherwise. You will obey my commands and hold my judgment above your own. I am your better, I own everything on this island, you included, and I treat my things well, but I do not tolerate insubordination or brattishness. Do you understand?" 

“I-I am not some pooch!” growled Wilson, face red with indignation, "I can-cannot be- _will_ not be domesticated!" 

“As of now you are very much unsuited to your new position, but as for the issue of domestication.” Carter leaned threateningly down over his prey, sneering maliciously, "That is not exactly up to you." fear coursed through Wilson at the horrifying implications of the statement.

“I will never bow to you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Carter gave him a positively shriveling smile, patting his head as though he were some child that had made a stupid conjecture. “We shall see about that, my ferocious pet.”

“If you wanted a pooch you should not have chained up a wolf,” Wilson hissed back spitefully. 

Silence settled between them, during which Wilson took pride in his quip, chest puffing up like a bird making himself bigger in an attempt at asserting dominance, and it was only ended by the sudden, extraordinarily loud, boisterous laughter of Carter. 

**_Pet._ **

It echoed like a gunshot through Wilson's mind for the remainder of the night. He had heard of men who had sat in cells on Death Row, or dingy federal prisons, sentenced to death, knowing that hell was just around the corner, and how they deteriorated under that pressure. That same deterioration was taking place within him now, as he lay. 

He felt as though he had been struck with some lifetime sentence or execution. To lay in his current state for a moment more, to exist by this wicked man as his subordinate pet, was a fate crueler than death. Physically he would carry on suffering, yet his pride, his inner self, would be subjected to such tortures that eventually he knew they would not stand a chance. They would be snuffed out under the foot of Carter. 

_He_ would be snuffed out. 

**What do you really have to lose?**

The very thought made the skin of his arms and back crawl, alive as though crackling with electricity. 

It was time.

His leg was an inconvenience to his cause, a large one, but at most an inconvenience. It would not stop him from escaping this hell he had been entrapped in. It hurt to move it, yes, and the rest of him was not in the best of shapes either, but where his mortal husk failed his pride and swelling passions picked up the slack. There was an inferno burning in his bosom, a bouquet of fury and frustration, nursed by the fantasy of freedom, in his heart, and it empowered him to escape. 

No matter what trials lay ahead of him now, it was inconsequential compared to the degradation and suffering he endured if he stayed any longer. soon, gloriously soon, none of it would matter, for he would be home. 

**Alone** that hideous voice whispered from under the floorboards, right in the height of his excitement.

“Good,” he muttered. Alone was what he wanted. Alone was normal and alone was freedom.

_**Alone…** _

“Go to hell…” he snarled back.

He refused to suffer the injustice of being a cruel man's dog, of being anyone's dog! refused to bow and beg and call anyone, much less Carter, his master. His entire life he had fought away from being subservient, being bossed around and told how to go about his business like a mindless sheep. That is in part why he had secluded himself in the woods, on the edges of a small midwestern town, he was his own man out there, he did mostly as he pleased, though even then…

**You were never happy there.**

“And I certainly won’t be happy here!” he snapped back.

Somehow the creature's silence was far more unnerving than its speech.

Escape decided upon, his mind went now to formulating plans. Half-formed ones had already been dreamt up, fantasies which he took care now to convert into actionable reality. His trusty razor was his pal, now more than ever, and it took a large role in his plan.

In his mind, it all played out vividly, and he thought over each step repeatedly, as though the entire escape were some moving picture or a daydream he could not help but replay. Each time the details became more vivid and spectacular: He would rise from his bed, hobble and creep to the door, he would sneak to the hallway, razor in his hand, any servant he passed that dare attempt to stop him he would slit their throats open. He would then find Carter and make the old man regret ever saving him, or hunting him in the first place, he would mutilate him, shred him, and bath in his blood as reward.

But of all the steps he had mapped out in his mind, by far the most crucial step was the first. _Move._

He had not properly moved since his days out in the jungle. How long ago had that been?

Time moved oddly here.

Starting off slowly, Wilson moved his good leg first, bending at the knee and stretching it out until it felt limber. He sat up and was pleasantly surprised to see that nothing punished him for it except a general sort of stiffness in his back and shoulders. Workable.

He arched out his back, stretching his fingers up to the ceilings. Things popped that he had never heard or felt pop before, and there was a tugging over his back muscles. But soon enough he felt as good as he had ever felt. Rolling his shoulders, he, at last, began to shift and scoot his way to the side of the bed. The trek was not long, nor painful, though his bad leg complained here and there. 

At last, he was able to swing his good leg over in victory, grin splitting his face in half. With the injured calf he was more careful, lifting it up and over the edge before letting it come to rest.

It was an odd feeling, having it hanging there.

The blood was flowing curiously, there were tugs to the bottom of both feet that he had not felt in some time. A throb went through his injury. He ignored it and took a deep breath, shuddering like a leaf as he slid down onto the chilled floors below.

What a pleasure feeling floor under his bare toes was, no matter how hard and cold. What a pleasure everything was! At that moment he felt almost drunk from the positive rush of chemicals in his brain. He had to him more dopamine then than he had had in so terribly long. 

His leg was horridly weak, his knee shaking as it held all its weight, the left one still suspended a bit off the ground. Putting weight on it was not, probably, wise, considering that it looked more like minced meat than a leg. He had to be as wise as possible about this.

He took one step, his knee nearly buckled, but he held to the bed, supporting himself upon that. Too early...so he waited, he had the time now, hours of it. Carter would not return back until morning. To bide his time while his leg accustomed itself to holding weight, he pulled from his pocket his dear little razor. 

It was his prized possession, his friend, even. "You're a good old fellow, you know. Nice and sharp and ready to maul the gullets of my enemies, like a friend ought..." it was not his first time talking to inanimate tools, nor his first waltz in the area of befriending the instruments he had on hand. "At home, you won't do much gullet mauling, though you'll want to...its 'frowned upon', over there...Tft, bastards, don't understand the clear difference between barbarism and scientific discovery. Setbacks, setbacks, setbacks...but it's good there, we can do other things, make do with the experiments we can do..." he held the knife against the lamplight in his room, admiring how the blade glinted. 

After a few more minutes of restlessness, he tested the waters, hopping forward. This time it was a much more satisfactory result, glee filled him to the very bursting brim. 

“Good, yes, come on,” he whispered, hopping once, then another, teeth cutting his lip as he watched his foot move. “The door! I could...I could make it to the door. Not far at all."

So he set forward, holding to the bed as long as possible.

It did not take him long to figure out how much he had been relying on the bed for support. Suddenly his balance was shaky, tilting this way and that as he shook, knee and foot aching as his leg trembled with each little hop and scooch. His heart was ramming against his ribs, hands shuttering. "I-I can do this. I have to do this. It's right there, right f-fu-ucking there, if I don't get there I'm...I'm useless...this is stupid..." he began to speed up his shifts and hops "All I have to do is..." his speed increased, as well as his desperation, "get over the- ACK!" his balance left him, a misaimed foot, and suddenly there was a door handle flying towards him. 

A crack echoed through the room, one which he barely heard as he plummeted to the ground. Pain pulsed through his forehead, something warm trickled against his temple, down his nose as he laid there. He felt something tear at his bad shoulder, something sticky was there as well. But oh, oh the worst was the leg, the bad leg, which he had landed on. Even through his fading consciousness, he could hear his own screams in the distance.

Cold metal chaffed his wrists. He grunted, startling awake, with a few slow, unenthused blinks. an ache pounded against his forehead, right at his hairline, arresting his attention until it was all he could truly comprehend. 

"You absolutely idiotic cunt."

He grimaced, trance broken, eyes at last fluttering open to see where the insult had come from. 

William Carter grimaced right back at him. His arms were crossed, black eyes dissecting him like a suicide spewed out on the table as he sat. He was fiddling with a horribly familiar razor blade as he did so. 

Wilson stomach dropped, knotted, and shriveled, the ache in his skull suddenly minuscule compared to the stab of agony that ripped through him at the sight of his wonderful razor, his companion, in the hands of the man he had dreamed of killing with it. Furthermore, the knowledge of his failure bloomed hot and ugly like deep, 3rd degree burns against his innards. 

"Did you, in all seriousness, actually think you could up and escape?" 

"Y-yes- yes I did, and I could have, I could have!" both of them knew it was a desperate lie, a lie told with the utmost passion of wanting it to become true. 

"No. You could not have." Wilson knew it was true, yet fought, hanging to the fantasy of escape that had gotten him through so many awful nights. 

"I will do it! I'll escape! I'll- I'll rise from this bed right now- right this instance- I'll make you choke on your- on your own god damn large intestine. I'll go then, I'LL SHOW YOU!" and he began then to thrash about violently, he yanked upon his handcuffs with such violence that the bed frame to which they were connected threatened to snap, as did the bones of his wrists. blood began to soak the poor man's sleeves from the cuts burrowing on his flesh from the metal. he did not care, if anything the pain only focused him further, drove him into a more powerful fit. his vocal cords were already damaged from the night's screaming, but that did not stop him from abusing them now as he thrashed and snarled as though possessed. 

For his part, Carter attempted to stop Wilson, attempting to call to him, and trying to physically still him with force. 

The young man hissed and spit when he was forced to be still, via a hand on his cuffed wrists and chest, pressing him into his mattress while the older man scowled down at him. 

All of that anger bellied up suddenly, crumbling down to what it had been masking, sorrow. Tears stung Wilson's eyes, the back of his throat clenching painfully as he shuddered, fighting uselessly against carter. "Let me go," he pleaded, much quieter now. "please-" 

"I don't want to restrain you like this, really, Wilson, I don't..." he seemed so terribly sincere for once in his life. "But stupid, disobedient dogs must be punished. Not only did you attempt escape, but you nearly bashed your brains out doing so, and very well could have stabbed yourself as well, with this ridiculous razor you've been holding so dearly, I am sure since you stole it from my shaving kit." Seeing that all the fight had gone out of his captive, Carter eased his hold over Wilson's hands and moved to cradle the side of his head. "I cannot fault you for wanting to kill me. Trust me, pal, you aren't alone in that little wish of yours, but I thought you were smarter then this." 

Wilson only responded with a sad wheezing. 

"So, you will just have to be restrained until I can trust you not to pull rediculous stunts like this." 

Wilson felt so horribly cold and vile as he patted his hair and rose, slipping the razor into his breast pocket and departing. 

Wilson was shaking, the sharp, distinct misery of failure blooming through him. He had failed. He had dug his own grave deeper.

Always failure.

It was a sort of fever dream that he experienced then, some hellish plain between reality and dream, as though he were floating, chained to his bed, along the corridors of his mind.

_"Stop that Wilson Percival!" his mother scolded. "Get back in bed before I tie you to it. The doctor told you-"_

_"Mrs. Higgsbury," his father snapped, "he's not a boy to be laid up in bed, he's restless, obviously, let him be."_

_"You give him so much leeway!"_

_"He's just broke his knee dear, some mercy-"_

_"It was his own fault! He shouldn't have been climbing that tree!"_

_Knowing that she couldn't be calmed, his father sighed, putting a hand on her back "...Go to bed, please, I'll settle him down."_

_His mother turned back to her son before departing, scowling, "If you keep wandering around you'll break something else, and I won't have it," she warned before storming away. His father sighed, closing the door behind her. "Look, champ, you've got to keep in bed for a few more days, just until the doctor says it's alright...I know...I know you want to dig around in the creek. How about this, I'll take you for a drive around the neighborhood if you promise to stay in bed like the doctor and your mama wants you to..."_

_"...I know you don't want to stay in bed, but for your own sake, for my sake, please try..."_

  
He could hear how his father begged him even now, because that had been begging. His voice had been level, gentle, yet the look in his eyes said it all. Wilson had tried, too, tried so damn hard, but he couldn't.

He was never meant to be cooped up in one room all day, exploration was not just a pleasure to him, it was a survival tactic. His entire existence hinged on his ability to move about and discover new things, he was a scientist for god's sake!

  
He dreamed of gardens and fields, of the woods he would crawl around as a boy, of the acres of empty farmland that had surrounded his little home. No matter how he tried, he could never quite reach the grass and fresh air in his dreams, but he remembered what it was to breathe in that clean, crisp air, to feel the sun beating down on him, to rustle in bushes for plants to study.


	10. Chapter 10

When Wilson awoke next, he awoke with tears blotting his eyes, such yearning burning between his ribs. All those pleasant dreams had succeeded in making the reality of his situation all the more horrible.

His hands craved to move, to craft, to build, to explore. To do anything. To distract.

He refused to ask Carter for anything, refused to take from his charity, only barely allowed the older man to feed and degrade him to keep himself alive.

The days, now without even the slightest movement allowed to him, with the thought of escape far off in the future -not impossible, mind you-, wilson rotted. There was nowhere for his mind to go, except off a cliff, and every passing day it seemed to splinter further. His thoughts became confused, transfixed for hours upon small things, before breaking down into a million different subjects. He was overwhelming himself, his brain overloading him with information and ideas and complaints, until he could no longer function under it.

A numbness sank into the marrow of his bones like an illness. It swattled him like a cold, wet blanket so that not even hysteria could compel him to movement. All seemed lost as he lay, depressed, always tired, and all seemed dark. 

Without the ability to move his hand, to put into action any plan, his mind was useless, he was useless, and this was a fact that he wallowed in for hours, until even his own self-pity lost its interest in him. 

Everything lost its interest, the static of extreme homeostasis washing everything to grey in its clutches. 

His mind whirred stilled, rebelled against this cold nothingness trying to envelop it each day, trying to find a light in the opaqueness of reality. 

Good was nowhere to be found, any scrap of pleasure miles away from his bound grasp. It did not give up, however, and turned to anything that could, even for a moment, distract it from the chasm it hung precariously over. 

Here, it found two objects. Carter and pain. The two things went hand in hand, really, but they could be seperated. 

As desperate as Wilson was for stimuli, any stimuli, he had enough sense in his sick skull still to stamp down any attempts his shriveling brain made to gain enjoyment out of Carter's presence, which was growing scanter than usual, it seemed. he was quick to come and quick to leave, leaving Wilson alone for longer. Still, the chasm yawned around him, and at times he caught himself slipping into a lax, almost blissful state in the presence of his abuser, at which he often harshly reprimanded himself and drove Carter away with whatever means he could. 

Those calm, pleasant moments were tranquil, like a cold cloth against his feverish forehead when they were upon him, yet they were terrifying nonetheless once they had departed. 

Pain, however, pain caused not by the wicked man holding him there, was something Wilson could allow.

The metal of his cuffs was quick to scrape against the thin flesh of his wrists and it took little effort on his part to reopen the scabs of the wounds given from his previous struggle. 

With new passion he began to yank upon the handcuffs holding him down, groaning as scab split open and blood began once more to peek its head out onto cold metal and warm skin. He dug harder, pulling his arms until the electric pain in his wrist crept through his entire arm and the muscles of his back protested. Blood openly ran from his cuts down to his sleeves, like tears. 

He let out a shaky sigh, pain and pleasure mixed like ink in the rain within him. At last, after what felt like eternities of nothingness, he felt something, it was his own, it was that little candlelight in the dark that he needed. 

**_More._ **

He began to twist his wrists, moving them about in any way he could pull off with the purpose of aggravating the cuts and bruises. The pain level rose steadily, but he was not a patient sort, and his mind set upon the task of manufacturing pain like any of his other experiments. 

With the heel of his good foot, he began to press into the larger cuts still healing on his bad leg. It hurt, but not as bad as it may have a month before, the pain was muted. He growled, digging his heel in harsher, but to little avail. 

Looking up and down his person, he found that his sleeves had bunched up at his shoulders, leaving his pale, now-thin arms exposed. 

Uncaring of how odd he looked he turned upon his forearm, stretching until his teeth could graze the flesh. He bit, then, and bit hard. Copper bloomed over his tongue as he groaned, sinking his teeth deeper, deeper still, pain searing down his spine, lighting him up inside and having entirely contrary effects to what pain was supposed to do. 

Every time Carter had bitten him came to mind then, and his eyes fluttered shut. Suddenly it was Carter’s flesh that he was biting into, revenge, and he smiled to himself ruefully, letting go only to take a larger, more vicious bite of himself. He imagined Carter's screams as a chunk of him was ripped away, confiscated, the way he would wiggle and writhe like the vermin Wilson used to experiment upon as a young boy. 

It was not an ugly picture, really, to see his mortal enemy completely at his mercy, to be subjected to the same shame as he had given Wilson. 

Something wicked and warm pooled in his stomach as images of Carter weak, beaten, defeated and contorting under him came to mind. It occurred to him that perhaps it would be better not to kill Carter, but to degrade him, force something unwanted down his throat and make him feel what Wilson had felt while being force-fed. Carter would make a fine footstool, he supposed, and an even finer _pet_.

It felt so real, so horribly good, and he saw before him Carter tied up in bed, at his complete mercy, of which there was none. 

To conquer, persist, and dominate over his peers and enemies had always been Wilson's dream. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Wilson began littering his arm with more bites, moaning as he became further entrenched in the fantasy, hips thrusting against his cool sheets for any sort of friction. He was drunk off the pure exhilaration of _feeling_ , of _being_ , of having _anything_ course through his entire nervous system. 

anguish and euphoria were beginning to make staying conscious rather hard, and he did not fight the dream as it encroached upon him and pulled him under.

When he woke, Carter was glaring down at him from above. “I understand a man has his needs Wilson,” he began, voice thoroughly unamused, “but could you so kindly refrain from shredding your arm the next time you wish to scrape your little hog.”

There was so much wrong with that statement to Wilson's sleep drenched mind, but the only thing he could think to respond in his offense and confusion was: “You know nothing about my hog!”

“And I had intended to keep it that way, but it is difficult, given the indecent mess I walked into today.” Malicious sincerity dripped off every word. 

Horror and humiliation shot through him and he felt his face go scarlet.

“I- uh- er- I- fuck off would you!” was all he could yelp, curling closer defensively to himself.

“Don’t. Higgsbury. I had to spend nearly an hour stitching you back together, not to mention scrubbing you and getting you changed.” He looked tired, more on edge and grumpy than normal, if at all that was possible. A sigh left him, his fingers going to work against the bridge of his nose. “Just...eat your fucking food and don’t ever do that again” with that he stood and made to leave.

“Wh-where’s my-”

“Quiet,” snapped Carter, voice raising to a yell as he snarled over Wilson. The anger faded as soon as it had come, replaced by agitated pain as he stiffly turned and left, slamming the door in his wake.

Soon after a servant entered, holding Wilson's food. Wilson, gratefully, was uncuffed and allowed to eat with his own hands. This also gave him a chance to observe his arm...it was impressive, in a sick way, how much damage he had done with teeth alone.

Nonetheless, what was done was done, it would heal soon enough, and it did nothing to detract or help his current predicament. 

What did affect his current predicament was that Carter did not come back that day. 

Over his lunch, devoid of the usual abuses and discomfort, Wilson was perfectly happy eating his meal in the presence of a quiet, uncomfortable servant. The afternoon dragged on, however, and it began to nag at him. 

Carter had faithfully fed him every day since he had woken in this bed, always on time to torture his captive, the sudden change in schedule was suspicious. At once scenarios crafted themselves in his mind, suggesting to him many explanations for this disappearance, all of them sufficiently dampening his happiness. 

It gave him something to pick at in his still, boring hours of solitary immobility, but it also gave him something to worry about. 

"Wh-what are you planning..." he muttered to himself at one point, and determined to get to the bottom of it at dinner. 

Here to, his concerns deepened when a servant brought him his nightly meal, no Carter in sight. 

"Wh-where is Mr. cuh-Carter, ma'am," he asked as he was given his tray. The servant was an older woman, hair white and whispy, shoved up into a thin bun. Her face was not the most pleasant, and there was a hardness in her blueish watery eyes that spoke of bitterness. She gave a cruel, sneering smile to his question. 

"God struck that devil down this afternoon, mercifully." 

His heart knocked violently against his ribs at her proclamation, and he stared up at her with wide eyes. "He's dead?" Horror accompanied that thought. _He_ wanted to be the one to strike the man down, not any higher force...The woman grunted bitterly. 

"No, the world is not that lucky yet. Only ill, for now, atoning for his sins, as I see it..." something in her softened as she looked at Wilson. "Damn that cruel man," she shook her head. "I refuse to put those handcuffs back on you, whoever brings you breakfast may chain you back up, for fear of their own hide, but I'll have none of it." 

Wilson was flabbergasted in his relief. "Ah! Th-thank you," he spluttered, earnest to show her his gratefulness. She met the thanks with a deep scowl. 

"Don't thank me for basic human decency, boy" she snapped, and Wilson's blInd joy faltered. "...Now you promise me one thing." Seeing that he was skeptically listening, she continued, taking his jaw in her knarled cold hand as a grandmother might to a child she needed to command. Wilson suddenly felt very, very young again. "When he gets better, because he always does get better, sadly, and he comes in here next, I want you to spit right in his face for all this. Don't you dare even think for a moment about giving in to him, understand?" Wilson could only nod and hope that got all of his feelings across. He promised. 

Satisfied, she let him go and allowed him to continue his meal. 

Though he was not the most honest fellow in the world, this was one promise he intended to keep. 

More days passed by, more servants cared for him, Carter nowhere to be found. Each day he attempted to ask after Carter's health, usually by awkward means such as randomly blurting out: "He isn't dead yet, is he?" to which, given an odd look by whatever servant he had asked, he would be forced to clarify. 

These little awkward conversations were painful, forced, but they were the closest thing to socializing he had. Some servants were kind enough, or pity filled enough to try and keep up the conversation with him, even if it always died pitifully down after a few minutes. 

From this, however, Wilson gleaned the information he needed. 

Carter was not dead, yet, which means his shot at eventually killing him himself remained undisturbed. He was able to pry from one more talkative servant that this was not any random little illness, but an ongoing, ever-present one. The old bastard had _fits_ , now and again, seemingly at random, and would be knocked out of commission days, even weeks by them. No one knew what it was, though, only that he was in great deals of pain, bedridden despite his attempts to move, consumed with fevers and wracked with other various miserable symptoms. It was popular amongst more superstitious servants, like the old woman, to suppose it was a punishment of sorts, delivered by a deity. 

Wilson fancied the idea, though he believed in no higher powers.

The oddity of this new situation, the new issues for his mind to pick upon, quickly grew stale, however. Once more he felt the yawning abyss of numbness slipping closer each hour he was awake. Not that his dreams were much better. Where his days were devoid of any meaning, his sleep was packed to the brim with horrific happenings, until he forwent the enterprise entirely. 

With Carter gone, self-inflicted pain was all he had to carry him through his restless waking hours, which had extended to _all_ hours. The sleep deprivation helped as well, ushering in madness more quickly. It all acted as a flick of a lighter in the dead of night, little pinpricks of _something_ against all of the _nothing._

Though he had tried to keep himself from sleep, afraid of those consequences, he could not help his daydreaming, and more often found himself fantasizing about fields and daylilies. When he closed his eyes, he was there, not in some greyish, awful, endless room, but under the caressing rays of the sun, sitting in the creek bed by his home, swimming in the chill waters of a river, gather mushrooms for experiments in psychedelics, driving along dusty roads in his age-worn car, nothing but corn and wheat fields for miles. Such sweet dreams with such bitter results. 

Their freedom and gilded joy only made his reality worse, like acid being poured into his lovely warm lavender bath, until he strove to bury himself away from everything that reminded him of captivity. 

The bed was killing him, literally. His brain was turning to mere hallucinatory mush.

He missed doing so many things, so many simple, harmless things. 

despite the unhealthy pulse hammering at his ribs, he missed being alive. 

To say the least, when Carter, at last, came back from paying his debts to nature and God, he did not come to find the same Wilson Higgsbury which he had left. 

The morning he came in touting breakfast and an only half sarcastic 'have you missed me pet' on his lips, the once sharp-witted, prideful, vicious man was curled up into himself, shuddering, sniffling into his pillow. 

"Wilson," Carter called, all pretense of joking or jabbing miles away now as he came to inspect his pet closer. What a mess he beheld then. 

Unshaven, hair awry and greasy, face deathly pale, eyes puffed and bruised with clear signs of exhaustion, lips chapped and trembling as tears rolled down his cheeks onto his pillow. His arms were bruises more viciously than ever, a testament to his need for escapism. 

"Wilson," the older man called louder, displeased, and he put a heavy hand upon the younger things shoulder. The touch, so startling, snapped Wilson from his revere. He whimpered, flinching from the hand on him and going rigged, straightening to look at Carter with wild eyes. "I leave you alone for a few days and this-" he was cut off by the wretched sob that escaped his pet. 

"I j-just want to go out-outside!" Wilson shrieked, beside himself. He saw his chance for freedom standing before him at last and seized it.

He remembered grass, trees, fresh air, remembered a time where these white walls that were screaming at him did not exist, and it scathed him. He had to get out of that damnable room, no matter the cost. Carter blinked, clearly disturbed. "I just...I just want.." he could hardly get the breath in to scream the words. "I can't-" he wheezed, before sucking in a deep enough breath to screech: "Let me go! Let me guh-go out-outside or-or kuh-k-kill me! I can-can't, Is ther-re an outside? i-is this he-hell? is this a-all? I just want-want outside that's all I...I know there's- there's more then this- there's more" a wretched sob exited him as he pulled his restraints before crumbling. "M-Muh-Master- just- please- I can't- I can't- this can't be all there is. I remember master- I remember the s-sun and al-all the little bi-birdies n bunnies, the pine-piney trees- I remember, it-its out there, why can't i- why can't I see. I want it! That's all...that's all I want..." From there it was all wordless sobs. "That's all I want..." 

Something in his words had struck Carter quick and deep, it read clear on his expression as he beheld his pet. His eyes were wide, face pale, as though he had recognized some horrid detail which had not previously been known. As though he'd seen a ghost. 

Wilson woke to the feeling of sunshine on his face. Warmth caressed his bones, intercepted pleasantly by a rhythmic breeze. the smell of coffee hit his nose, got his salivary glands working, and with a grunt, he forced his drowsy eyes open, not recalling ever having passed out in the first place. Not recalling much at all, really. 

He was outside, greenery, both trees, and shrubbery met his eyes. It bewildered and delighted him in a way that he could hardly comprehend. He looked to his left, and saw Carter. They sat across from one another, tea table between them, coffee set up, as well as an ashtray and cigar case. Another wave of cool breeze hit his face and he blearily turned to where it had come from. A few paces off there was a girl holding a rather large paddle fan, keeping them all cool from the Caribbean sun. He turned back to the tea-table.

“...Wilson...” caught his attention and it occurred belatedly to him that Carter had been speaking the entire time. He blinked, rousing enough energy to look up and pick up the individual words being addressed to him. “Say pal, can you even hear me?” Wilson nodded. “ah, good. Do you want some coffee, it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“wh-” his voice sounded wrong against his own ears, rasping like sandpaper in his throat. he swallowed and tried again. “where-where a-are we?”

“My garden, obviously. I often take tea out here in the afternoons, if the weather allows it. It’s nice, is it not?”

"Really?' he rasped, unsure whether this was dream or reality, hallucination or sanity. It seemed too good to be true. 

"I swear on my life, pet, you're outside..." if there was anything after that statement Wilson did not comprehend it. 

_Outside._

Mere months ago, had you told Wilson that one day he would be brought to tears of joy at the sight of sunlight, he would have scoffed. Yet here he was, sobbing as the Caribean sun beat down on him, and nature greeted him with all her glory. Real nature, not imagined, not hallucinated, but real nature that he could breathe in and touch and feel in every crevice of himself. Carter allowed him to cry, not scoffing, not bullying, giving nothing but a cool understanding silence. 

It was all so beautiful, all of his dreams, in that moment, seemed to be coming true, all thanks to the man that had at last allowed it. 

"Th-thank you,' Wilson murmured through his own tears of happiness, scrubbing at his face with a less than sane laugh before repeating his thanks to Carter. 

"You'll be glad to know, thinks me, that I intend to allow you to accompany me out here more often," Wilson hardly heard his master's words, still excitedly soaking in all of the open air and wonderful plant life around him. In fact, something behind Carter had especially caught his bloodshot eyes. 

_Flowers_. He could not think of the name, but he knew that they were beautiful, and it reminded him of the red and yellow poppies he would find by his property as a child.

Carter, seeing that his companion's attention was diverted, turned to see what had captured it.

“Ah, the flowers. I had not taken you for a fellow that would appreciate such delicate beauties.” he returned his eyes onto Wilson and saw the want in his dark eyes. “You want to see them up close?”

“Master carter,” a voice called from afar, drawing Carter's attention from his sickly coffee guest. “What is it,” the older man snapped. The response was hasty, breathless. “A telegram from your brother, sir.” Carter growled to this, displeased as he threw the napkin from his lap and prepared to rise. “Damn him,” he muttered, looking to Wilson, who was still admiring the flowers. “Wilson, I have business necessity compels me to take care of, if I set you by the flowers over there do you promise not to go anywhere? Will that get you back in your own head?”

Wilson only nodded, but it was enough for Carter, who gave an order for Wilson to be carried to those colorful buds before disappearing from the table.

Before the young man knew it he had been set up to sit in his chair right by the colorful bush, bad leg propped on a velvet footstool. Indeed, he was not in his own head, but rather floating between past and present. There was whispering in his skull, shadows flickering in the corner of his vision. He reached out and stroked one of the red flowers in front of him.

It was something physical, those soft velvet petals, something that had never failed, and that did not fail even now, to tether him more securely onto this realm. From the depths of memory, he recalled something that had always helped when he was lost in his own head. 

It gave his hands something to work on, something to move over, tie, braid, and tug on, which did wonders. He focused on those sensations under his fingertips, the leaves, stems, and petals that he was commander over. Simple tasks allowed his mind to simplify, to return to reality, thoughts quelling to a mere murmur, the past fading to flickering memories, and all of his meager energies collectively pouring into the now. 

Shadows fell away from his peripheral silence, nothing was yelling, growling, or hissing him, nothing was attacking him, it was just a man and his flowers.

At last, he finished his creation, delicately slipping it on, minding the mess that was his ill-treated hair. It was silly, girlish even, but the flower crown on his brow calmed his nerves.

He felt more human than he had in eons, and he basked in the glow of it, and in the sun. Soon he was bathing in the warm rays, not unlike a lizard, content at last. 

“Gee pal, if you weren’t such a bitch I’d say you were a nymph,” a gravelly voice said, shocking Wilson from his haze. Embarrassment shot through him as he met eyes with Carter, who had returned from his business and was now looking at him curiously. Wilson grew defensive of his crown, curling slightly into himself, reaching to take it off. Carter stopped him, saying: “No, I’m just teasing ol pal. If it helps it helps.”

Still hot in the face with embarrassment at being caught in such a thoroughly unmanly, unintimidating position by the one he knew he ought to be intimidating the most, he attempted to relax, keeping his crown of flowers on, because it did help.

“We all have our little things, you know...” continued Carter, going back to the tea-table. “Do you want your coffee, Wilson?” He picked up a cigar from his case as he spoke, clenching it with his teeth and striking a match as we waited for a response.

“Yes...” to that Carter waved over one of the waiting butlers, who came and assisted him in moving Wilson back to his original place at the tea-table. Once everyone was settled back into their places, Carter once more began to speak. 

"Do you recall, right before we were interrupted, that I said that I intended to have you accompany me out here more often?" Wilson blinked to this, scraping his foggy memory of the last hour before nodding slowly, a bit suspicious now that he was more in hand. 

"Wh-what's the catch, do I have to-to be your footstool or something," he griped back, packaging his concern as a joke. Carter chuckled, thankfully, taking a sip of his black coffee. 

"I make no promises," he smoothly, jokingly replied. Afterward, however, his face smoothed into something more serious as he took a drag from his cigar. "It was...admittedly hypocritical of me to do what I did to you. Handcuffing you was a hasty, knee-jerk reaction, in hindsight, it should have been obvious...but I did not anticipate how negatively it would affect you." 

"It...You-you chained me tuh-to my bed for days and...and left me there with a bunch of strangers, that would affect any- anyone badly." 

"Badly, yes, but it does not often drive them into that sort of hysteria. You need air and movement, like any pet, really, I see that now and I have changed your environment accordingly. You like books, don't you?" 

"D-depends on the book...What do you mean-" 

"My library is extensive, we will have no difficulty finding you something to keep your mind busy with." Wilson did not like this, he felt as though he were under Carter's microscope, as though he were a problem that needed to be solved. "I should make myself clear, because you're a stubborn bitch. There will be no fighting, no tantrums, nothing. I am doing a good thing for you, Wilson, and you will not stop me. Whatever I can provide in the way of books, paper, pens, and harmless projects I will. For I do not like seeing you in this...pitiful, mangled mental shape." 

"Why not," Wilson snapped peevishly, gripping his teacup tightly, unnerved by this newfound kindness from the man who had hitherto shown no signs of possessing anything of the like, "you-you love to-to make things suffer." 

"Precisely the issue with this. I did not directly create it, at least, I did not intend to. When you break, Wilson, you will break on _my terms_."


	11. Chapter 11

Somehow that response was even worse than Wilson's original accusation. 

"When," the younger man rasped, chilled by the implications of the statement. Carter nodded, taking a dainty little sippy of coffee. "When," he repeated, and that was all. 

"I...uh... this new- new environment...what does that consist of?' He asked, far from forgetting the previous subject's inherent threat. 

"Well there's no need to ruin a surprise, is there?" 

"I don't- I never liked surprises," he replied mildly. 

"Me neither, pet, but humor me and I am sure you'll find yourself much upgraded from your current living arrangements." He gave him a lopsided smirking smile, perfectly casual, as though they were friends. "You and I, you know, we have more than a few things in common if you remember." 

"What-" it was an automatic reaction, like a verbal flinch to the awful conjecture of being similar to his abuser. 

"Oh don't act offended," scolded Carter, slapping him on the wrist peevishly. "I know I am an ass, but you aren't exactly mother Teresa, now are you, pal." Seeing the look of horror on Wilson's pale face, he sighed, close to rolling his eyes. "We got on quite well, as I remembered it, when you first dined at my illustrious table." 

"Yes, but-but then you tried to-to kill me!" 

"Oh would you get off of that, it happens," Carter grumbled, shaking his head, 'and to be fair, you tried to kill me as well. You're only truly mad because I was more successful in my attempts then you." 

"I...Even so, you tried to kill me and-and failing that you- you insist on treating me as though- as though I were your-your little housepet." 

"And? Can a man not take a pet for his own, a companion for his twilight years." There was a touch of purposeful melodrama in his tone, despite his annoyance. "You say it as though it is some degrading thing, to be my pet. Of course, you must learn obedience and respect, you answer to me, but after that you shall only ever have to answer to me. Above me, there is no one, and you can treat the world however you wish. Does that not sound nice?" 

"I-I want to bow-to bow to no one!" 

"Heh, that's tough kid, because that's not how this little thing called life tends to work. We all answer to someone, boss, spouse, family, friends, the key is to narrow that list down as small as you can get it. With me, Wilson, that list is as narrow and straightforward as it gets." 

For a traitorous moment something rose up within Wilson, **Yes,** it hissed, **This is what you wanted, power, freedom out from societies-** "I don't see you- you b-bowing to anyone." 

Carter had to pause at that, had to think of an answer, "I'm as free as someone like me can be, but who or what has any power over me is not your concern. Everything on this island, everything you see here, is mine, I consider it my kingdom, my domain, and I protect and care for it earnestly. I am not an unjust master of my possessions." 

"Humans can-cannot be possessions," Wilson shot back, more frightened then angry. Frightened by Carter and by his own tumoltruous emotions battling within him. Pride and fury clashing with greed and... **No one has ever wanted to take care of you.**

Carter scoffed. "Surely you've taken at least one history class in your life. Humans can and have been possessions from the very beginning of time. It is possible." There was a pause, in which Carter analyzed him deeply with his empty black eyes, driving Wilson's nerves further up the wall then they already were. "You didn't have a very happy adolescence, did you?" 

Any complex emotion got momentarily swept away from all encompasses defensive offense. "Wuh-what's that to you!" Carter nodded, reacting as though Wilson had said 'yes'. "How-"

"I used to be a magician, that was my profession before I took to manslaughter. It is one of those jobs which unintentionally requires you to be an observant, manipulative bastard. After all, you can only trick something if you know its weak spots." He leaned forward, forcing Wilson to press further back into his chair. "I probably know you better than you know you right now." And with that, he took a long, infuriatingly calm drag. 

"N-no, that's im-impossible!" Cried Wilson, setting his jaw. 

"Nothings impossible, pal. You were unhappy in your adolescence, you were probably bullied by your peers, outcasted, probably for your passions for science. You're out for vengeance now, you seclude yourself bitterly despite wanting companionship-" 

"No! That's not true. I secluded myself specifically be-because I don't- I don't want- _need_ companionship," declared Wilson, violently proud of himself for derailing Carter's otherwise correct assessment. Carter raised a brow and leaned forward, giving him a cruel, almost pitying smile. 

"Pal, if you didn't want companionship **you would have escaped or killed yourself already**." Wilson was too horrified to respond, could find nothing to say, and was forced to listen as Carter continued: "The rest of them, the ones I keep reserved for hunting. If I don't kill them quickly enough they either escape or kill themselves, realizing that their old lives are lost. Just this morning one of them bashed their own head in on the stone walls of his cell. You don't do that, you've never made an attempt at your own life, even when escape was impossible, getting to your old life, equally so. You kept living, kept existing in your perpetually hell, which tells me that deep down, there was never any life to lose in the first place. Deep down, you know you're better off here than you were back whence you came from, or dead." 

Wilson's throat was locked, his entire brain equally as stuck. A creeping sense of doubt began like a poison to gnaw at his own understanding of his situation. To hear the words of that stupid demon that had haunted his mind for so long regurgitated by Carter...made Wilson bring himself into question. 

"Tell me," continued Carter, taking one last drag of his cigar before crushing it in the ornate ashtray, "what's one thing from your old life which you simply must return to, it can be anything, big or small, tell me one facet of your previous existence -besides your science- that gave you your will to live, that you would die if you could never see it again." 

Wilson had nothing. 

He knew he had nothing, yet he attempted to dig, to stretch, to wrench anything out of his memory that could stop Carter's assertions, that could disprove what felt like an awful truth. 

Nothing. 

Carter against smiled at him, reaching across the table to grasp Wilson's hand lightly in his own. "Stop fighting yourself, you have nothing to escape back to, nothing waiting for you outside this island. No one here does." 

"M-Myself- I have my-myself-" he hoarsely whispered, looking at their conjoined hands, unable to pull away. **When's the last time someone held your hand, you sad little man.**

Carter chuckled, "Yet you're still here, having tea with me. Any truly self-respecting man would have killed himself by now." 

Silence reigned over their remaining coffee. Carter allowed him to think, to process, to...To mourn, really. 

There was nothing waiting for him in his home. He'd built his small, shitty palace on the sand, and now it was all sliding away into the sea. The chasm in his core, that need in him had worked so hard to ignore and patch over with science, _ached_. 

_"Everything on this island, everything you see here, is mine, I consider it my kingdom, my domain, and I protect and care for it earnestly. I am not an unjust master of my possessions."_

Protect. Care. Both words irritated the ache, made it stronger, broke his resolve. 

**_"Any truly self-respecting man would have killed himself by now."_ **

He looked up to Carter, who was pouring himself another drought of coffee, and asked himself if that man in front of him was what he wanted. 

Even as Carter picked him up after they had both finished their tea, he had not found his answer. It felt as though he were staring at everything through a thick fog, unable to grasp anything, unable to determine anything for himself. 

His master's embrace was so warm, so solid and all encompassing, that he felt himself sink into it, and focused on that instead of the terrifying smog of his own mind. 

He did not remember falling asleep, yet he was awaking nonetheless. 

"Did you enjoy your nap, Wilson?" 

Wilson groaned, blinking violently to clear is vision before taking in his surroundings. They were new, to say the least. 

Instead of that cursed white room that had held him captive for so long, there was a larger, far better decorated terrain in front of him. The walls were tall, masculine mahogany paneling stopped midway up the wall by tastefully dark wallpaper. Dominating the back of the room was a large, ornate, dark wood desk, sparkling under the lamplight. Behind it was an impressive chair, which looked just as comfortable as it did intimidating Lining the walls were equally large and dominating bookshelves, stuffed with novels old and new. A Persian carpet covered most of the floor. There was even a fireplace and seating area, which Wilson had been placed directly next to, giving him a nook between fireplace and wall to rest against. 

It occurred belatedly to him that he was in fact not on any sort of furniture. Looking down, he found that he had been placed upon a cushion, of sorts, akin to a mat, but with fur. He had been given a pillow and a blanket as well. 

"You're in my personal office," Carter answered before Wilson could ask. "It's much better then your old room, is it not?" 

Wilson would take anything above that wretched room, so nodded, sparing himself the indignity of answering. 

"Chin up, pal, you're master's brought you a little something. A gift, you could say." Wilson was all wary eyes as Carter rose from where he sat and gathered something from behind the sofa, out of Wilson's line of sight. "vola," he made a flourishly motion, brandishing a simple yet elegant walking cane to his pet, who gawked despite himself. "Now, this is one of my older ones, I found it in the back of my summer closet. I want you to get back on your feet, now that your leg is starting to look more like a leg again. Nothing should tear if you are careful, which you will be, and I intend to stitch the remaining gashes closed tonight, or else soon. Here you are, try it out." He handed his pet his cane, stepping back and watching keenly as Wilson held it in his hands. 'Well come on, you do remember how to walk, right?" 

Provoked, eager to move again, Wilson grit his teeth and began to move. With a fare amount of ease, he was able to ease up into a standing position, leaning heavily upon the cane. All would have been well, had he not heard the jangle of chains with each movement, and feel a tug of new weight upon his throat. 

He was quick to look behind him as Carter smiled, as though Wilson had final hit upon his joke. Sure enough, there was chain, chain connected to the wall securely, and that chain went up his body, hanging from- His fingers darted to his neck, and horror swiftly throttled him. 

"Really, I should have thought of it before," commented Carter, looking smugly at his handiwork as a sick shudder ran through Wilson. "The look suits you." It felt like lemon juice squirted into a wound. 

_A collar._

_A fucking collar._

**It's only fitting.**

"I...why?" 

"I still cannot trust you not to attempt, in your bouts of madness, to try and escape. There will be no risk of that for the time being. However, you may still move about quite a bit, I made sure the chain was long enough for that." 

So much was happening in Wilson's mind that he found himself sitting back down upon his cot, as though that would help anything. Carter continued jabbering regardless. 

"As promised you will have access to any books and journals that you need. You have only to request your wants to me, and I'll see what can be done. That is, if you behave. My old rules still stand, I will not tolerate insubordination or brattishness. Furthermore, if you somehow manage to make a mess in here, you will clean it up and receive due punishment. While you may stand and roam as much as you please, you may not sit on any of the furniture without my explicit permission. Do you understand?" 

Wilson only nodded. Carter was not pleased with that. 

"Speak up boy!" 

Wilson flinched before croaking out a: "y-yes master..." It was not the full truth. He had heard his orders, understood the parameters, yet did not truly understand. 

There was a lag between him and everything happening around him..."Good. Now how about you rest, Wilson, you look like you haven't slept in years."

Tired.

He was tired.

So damn tired.

He laid down, curling up on his mat, adjusting the pillow a few times before he was comfortable. He heard a sigh from above, when suddenly there was a blanket being pulled over his body, and fingers stroking his head gently, lulling him into unconsciousness


	12. Chapter 12

For the first time in some time, he dreamed of nothing. All was still in his mind, too exhausted to conjure up good or bad images.

When he woke, he felt refreshed, sharp once more, and with that mental clarity came enough anger to make up for the last few hours combined. More violent was his hatred for his situation now that he had tasted what it was to be submissive, to be unreactive to his situation. He had _begged_ with tears and 'please master's to see the outside, a basic human right, and he had known himself to be in chains, collared like a beast, and he had done nothing, protested not once, but had laid down and obeyed Carter's orders to rest. He had sat there and just taken it. 

It was enough to want to gouge his own two eyeballs out. 

Instead of committing that highly unproductive atrocity, he went about assessing his situation. Multiple times, with varying amounts of strength, he yanked upon his new chain, attempting and failing each time to disconnect it either from the wall or the collar. That collar was given fair, disgusted inspection as well, and he grappled with it until his fingers were numb, trying to find a weakness anywhere in the metal contraption. No such luck. All he found was a sturdily made though medieval collar, held together by an equally strong lock in the back, to which he was sure William Carter possessed the key. 

It occurred to his wild mind briefly that perhaps it was somewhere in the room, in a drawer of that big desk, where he could perhaps find it...the thought was crippled underfoot the simple fact that Carter, for all his pitfalls, was no idiot. Really, he was a brilliant man...

He swatted the sentiment down once he identified it. 

"I-It's a battle of wits, me against a madman who just huh-happens to nuh-know what he's-s - what he's doing, one wh-which I'll win..." he grumbled this to himself, curling back into an angry ball on his mat, facing the wall. "N-no problem." 

Even with all that newfound clarity, that seeping doubt had not been washed away. It nagged, nagged, always nagged, just under the skin like a needle, or a poison, until he found himself analyzing his every reaction and action up until this point. 

"I-It's not true- I don't- who would- who would want this..." he muttered to himself, brows knit, shaking his head, " _I-I certainly don't!_ " Still, that doubt, planted there by his enemy, nagged, as if to say: _**Are you sure?**_

At length, the door to the office opened and Carter entered.

"Still asleep are we?" he asked, coming closer after shutting the door behind him. The captive, who was still in the midst of mentally fist fighting himself, did not move, barely even breathed, but only glared head steadfastly. William Carter trailed closer, black, empty eyes scrutinizing Wilson, sending shocks of discomfort through him. 

"Ah, I see those eyes are open. You _are_ awake. Come and get your food." Wilson did no such thing, staying right where he was stubbornly. "Wilson." There was impatience in his voice now, a threat. Wilson ignored it, he could not tolerate bowing to this man, disgusted with himself for ever having done it in the first place, yet...That self-skepticism was undeniable, born from his proclamations at the tea table, he could not help but think that deep down some traitorous side of him wanted this, craved this, and he strove to annihilate that little treacherous seed. _Damn Carter and his meal, and his orders_ , Wilson had larger issues. " _WILSON_ ," Wilson flinched at the loud voice and cried out as fingers wove through his hair, yanking him up and away from the wall. "Damn these petulant fits of yours, when I tell you to come and eat, you _will_ come and eat." and Wilson was dragged then, from his pillow and blanket all the way to that monstrous desk at the end of the room. He yelped the whole way, attempting to struggle away from the pain in his scalp as follicles tore from flesh. 

To no avail, of course, and it was only as carter threw him roughly into the side paneling of his desk, that he found any relief, despite the pain that bloomed in his shoulder from the treatment. Woeful of his precious, mistreated hair, he massaged his aching scalp soothingly, glaring at his master as the older man sat down at his desk. On the mahogany table, there were two plates of food, along with two glasses of water, insinuating that, to Wilson's utmost displeasure they would be sharing this meal.

carter sighed as though he had been the one to suffer the most in the last few hours. "I had hoped to find you in better health today, mentally that is," and as he spoke he passed Wilson's meal down to him. 

"I-I'm perfect-perfectly healthy," hissed Wilson, grinding his teeth to dust as he glared up at his master. "I-I'm saner-saner now than I have been in-in weeks!" If ever there was one facet of his childhood he had not missed, it was this damned stutter. 

"Spoken like a true madman," muttered Carter dismissively. That threw Wilson for a loop, as it had been designed to. Madmen did always think themselves sane...that was a fact. "Now, eat your lunch, perhaps that will bring you back round the bend."

Wilson glared at the plate of delicious-looking food for a time, listening to the sounds of William Carter digging into his own meal. Papers were shuffled about as well, a pen uncapped, and between silverware clinking, there could be discerned the scratch of fluent, cursive writing.

Time drew on, Wilson picked at his food, preoccupied entirely with himself, attempting to convince himself that he was not the madman here, that his anger was not misplaced, scrabbling to protect his perfectly natural, just displeasure from the newfound sickly parasite that was rapidly building forces against him. 

_No man could ever want to be in my position, this is wholly unnatural._

**_You were never the sturdiest flask on the shelf_ **

That could not be denied. He never had been all that normal...his whims had always been of a most 'unnatural' sort, he had always been frowned upon, thought of as an odd duckling in the wretched pond... 

_This is different._

_**How so?** _

That clung to his bones like a wet, miserable, suffocating smock, which he struggled under, forgetting where he was entirely. 

"Eat." that drew him from his revere, forced him to look upwards. His master was frowning violently at him. "The cook made you perfectly good food, do not waste it."

" 'm not hungry," he muttered, annoyed, edging towards being overwhelmed, scooting the plate away from him.

"Bullshit. Eat. Or else I'll shove it down your throat myself." That threat was not idle, he knew, and with a huff, afraid of ever finding himself in a situation anywhere close to being force-fed again, he began picking at his food once more. Satisfied enough, Carter went back to whatever it is he was doing.

Chewing on his sustenance, Wilson ignored the issues dawning within himself, and in characteristic fashion began to look outward for any hope of escape. Chained up as he was, there was not much hope to be found, except in the removal of the obstacle itself. 

"When will I be unchained?'' He dared to ask, attempting to pass it off as merely casual, wandering question, not connected to any specific set of ideas whatsoever. 

"Whenever I deem fit," replied Carter unhelpfully. Wilson bit back his groan, but perked up again as he added: "and whenever you get better." 

"B-Better?" 

"When you get this, nasty, brattish bug out of your head, then I will have little qualm in unchaining you and allowing you propper freedom around this manner." 

_Better? He had to get the bug out of his head? What was the bug? Bug?_

"Y-You mean my entire personality? everything that makes me...me...I have to-to get rid of that before- to earn-to earn the right to- to walk as I please..." 

"No, silly boy, that doesn't make much sense, now does it? I chose you for your personality, you are a wonderful vicious little thing when you're in your right mind, I can see it. We've just got to find a way to uncover it from beneath all the rot." 

There was no good way for Wilson to respond to any of what had just been said, and so he stayed silent, opting to stare at the floor and his own feet instead. 

Once both of them had finished their meals and Carter had concluded with whatever he had had to pen, the plates were taken away and Wilson darted back to his corner mat, curling up in that nook and pressing his knees to his temple. Ever since he had been a boy that position had always comforted him, made him feel protected, and the pressure of his knees against his forehead never failed to make thinking easier. This was ideal, given just how much thinking he was being forced to do. 

He wished to throw off everything William Carter had said to him, all the stupid doubts he was sowing in his mind, wanted to doff it all like the manipulative ploy it surely was...yet he could not...he simply could not shake the terrifying thought away: **Master is right. You're the insane one. There's something in YOUR head.**

"Wilson," the voice was close, looming right over him. He shook his head, burrowing deeper into himself. "Wilson. I'm going to stitch your leg up, in a bit, I need you to uncurl from your fetal position."

He was tempted to deny him that, to disobey and keep in his fetal position, because it was his, and it was the only comfort he had right now. Yet logic prevailed, it benefited him too greatly, finally having the leg stretched closed, to justify denying himself that. So he uncurled, both legs stretched straight on his mat. 

"Good boy," and with that Carter exited his office. 

Wilson hated how that little, meaningless praise affected him, even now. His chest felt warmer than before, little tiny wretched butterflies flapping about his stomach for a moment at the praise they had been deprived of for so long. He cursed himself, cursed the world for giving him that weakness, for creating yet another hole within him that this cruel man could easily fill. 

Carter returned after a short time, carrying his typical medical bag. He sat himself more comfortably on the ground, partially crosslegged, dragged Wilson's injured leg to lay over his lap so that he could more easily access it. With quick, expertise movements he began to unwound the bandages away from the injury. Wilson sighed, closing his eyes and laying down on his back. His fate of being nursed by this man had been signed, signed long ago, and he did nothing to fight it. 

"Wh-why are you doing this?" Wilson asked idly, the question nagging at him, not for the first time. 

"I told you already, did I not?" There was an impatient warning clear in his sharp tone.

"No I mean...this," he made a vague gesture to his battered up body. "Sh-surely you have some-some sort of doctor here, or-or a-or something better to do than play pretend at nurse."

"Ah," was all Carter sighed out at first, distracted with observing the gashes in Wilson's leg. "What is that to you?"

"I-I don't know...J-just suh-something I was-was wondering..."

"Very well, for one, there are no doctors on this island. Some of my servants know how to take care of more serious wounds, of course, but in general, I dislike men of _that_ profession." So much disgust swaddled the last two words that Wilson found his curiosity struck, not for the first time. "In any case, you decided to be lethally wounded when I was most bored with my usual hobbies." Wilson decided it was best not to linger on what exactly his 'hobbies', besides manslaughter, might include. "Tell me, you said you were schooled with intentions of becoming a doctor, what's your opinion of the class of men you nearly joined." 

Wilson frowned, unpleased by the initial memories his brain served him. "I...I left for a reason. Muh-most of them were-were stuck up b-bootlickers. They-they had no vision...no...no nothing really. M-most of them were-were in it for the money, or because-cause their father's we-were doctors."

Cater hummed with what sounded like agreement. Something cold and stinging slid against his wound, disinfectant. "To be perfectly blunt, I've never met a man who called himself a doctor that I did not loath." There was a pause before he added: "I have trouble imagining that you actually wanted to be a doctor." 

"I-I didn't...well, I thought- I thought I could tol-tolerate it. I got- uh- well I got strong armed into it, r-really, by my mother. She always- she always wanted me to be a doctor, since it- it ran in the family, like- like the plague. My father was, he practiced medicine...I guess I wanted to-to make him proud as well." 

"Was he?" Carter asked, finishing the disinfectant stage of the process, moving to prepare the needle and thread. 

"A-as proud as a-a tombstone can be," he joked, smiling bitterly. 

"Ah, I see," was all he said, jabbing the needle into Wilson, thoroughly distracting him.

The subject shifted somewhat as a groan exited the younger man. It was not, per se, a normal groan of pain, and soon he felt his face light up with horror. It occurred to him then, and only then, that perhaps leaning so heavily into pain and convincing himself it was pleasure, in those dark, numb times before this, had not bee his smartest move. Carter raised a brow at the sound, yet continued, stitching with all the grace of a tailor seeming and waistcoat.

Wilson tried his damndest to stifle the sounds and stomp down the feelings boiling up and out of him, and he certainly ignored the slight tightening of his slacks as his belly grew warmer. In an attempt to reverse the mess he had gotten into himself and calm the pleasure triggering off of the stimulus, he looked at William Carter. 

The man still was not handsome, which was good, his eyes were still void of any human quality and his lips were still far larger then they had any right to be, his face was to pale and to angular to be comforting and...and Wilson's nether regions issue was not going away. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here she is! the final chapters! As always I had hoped to get these suckers out weeks ago but life nay-nayed that request into the nether realms, so here we are. Enjoy yourself, and heed the new tags, I ain't paying any y'alls therapy bills.

Eventually, overcome with the discomfort of his situation, he shut his eyes and focused entirely on the physical sensations shooting out from his poor, abused leg. Shivers racked him as he was mended, stitched back together, and eventually, he closed off his tumultuous thoughts. 

For a mere second, one little blip in the sea of confusion and agony, a certain sick bliss prevailed.

Bliss, however, was not on the menu tonight. 

the pain stopped as the stitching did, seeped away from him, dragging him back into the realm of consciousness, where he went begrudgingly, stopped only by sudden pleasure. He gasped, every muscle going taught as something hard and heavy pressed between his legs. His eyes peeled open, flying to see what was-

William Carter was staring him down, drilling into him with those awful eyes as his heel ground into his pet’s erection. The older man was appraising him curiously, as though he were a frog under the knife on a laboratory table, an anomaly, a mere book to be studied. Terror, disgust, and pleasure all floored Wilson, stole his breath, and made him struggle against the dress shoe pinning him down. 

"Enjoying yourself, pet?" he sneered, driving his foot further into Wilson's erection.

_no._

**Yes**.

He attempted to lock away the noises that wished to escape out of his throat. Pleasure, traitorous, purely physical pleasure, curled upwards from his core, seeping into his blood, to his bones, only heightening as the foot began to kneed upon him roughly.

Shudders racked through him, his throat wheezing out sounds of pain and pleasure, despite his best efforts to swallow them. Carter sneered, cruelly interested with the spectacle before him.

"You need your master to take care of you?" That was a mock, Wilson knew it and it only made everything so much worse. 

Wilson shook his head, his head in a whirlwind as the foot continued its torturous grind. A scoff was heard from above, salt in all of his wounds. 

"Oh, that's rich," and the foot left. Wilson did not have much time to enjoy such reprieve, for the chain of his collar was yanked upwards, pulling him up like a fish stuck on a line. He choked, airways violently constricted as he was slammed into the wall. Suddenly, Carter was on him, so close, to close, nose to nose, warm breath flushing against even hotter flesh. Wilson grappled at his collar, attempting to ease the pressure, fear coursing through him afresh as he stared helplessly into his master’s cruel eyes. There was a sparkle in those void. He was enjoying this, enjoying Wilson's struggles, lapping him up like he was some sick play unfurling for his entertainment.

Desperate to breathe, to do more than flounder like a dying fish, Wilson hooked his legs around Carter's slim hips, pushing up off of them, and the wall behind him to create slack in the collar.

Breath, beautiful breath, blinded him and he sucked it in with raspy, vicious gasps. For a moment he forgot himself, forgot his entire situation, forgot everything beyond the rattle of his deprived lungs being replenished.

Pleasure returned, mixing with that dizzying relief, and he moaned shamelessly, back arching as something began palming his cock through his trousers roughly. His foggy mind attempted to grasp at straws, eventually piecing together the fact that that thing groping him without care was Carter.

Distantly he knew he should fight it. Knew he should loath every drag of that foul man’s hand...yet it felt like a dream to his touch-deprived mind. Never had he dared to entertain such a thought, someone, _anyone_ , touching him in this manner. It was the deepest of his lonely body's desires, to be caressed and held like a lover. 

"My god," that vile voice of his abuser hissed, obviously taunting him, and at last Wilson looked back to him. He was enjoying it, still, but not in any sexual way, not in the way he should. "You pitiful excuse of a man." Wilson could say nothing to deny it, the fact was fairly evident. That did not, however, stop him.

It never had.

Behind all the pleasure and the raw _need_ , there was a prevailing sense of horror, alarm bells chiming far away. Farther away, now, as Carter upped his ante leaving Wilson merely an aching, drooling, moaning shell. "Tell me what you want," Carter growled, right in his ear.

"I-uh-" he was so close, so soon, so pitifully soon...His mind was a mere smear behind him on the wall, but he struggled to give words to the picture his imagination offered him. "K-K-kiss me- please?" Even whores kissed their employers, kisses meant nothing, nothing at all, it would be nothing for Carter to give him one- just one- the only one he had ever, and would ever receive.

" _ **Kiss**_ you?" The malice in his tone was enough to cut through every foggy layer of pleasure. "You want me to _**KISS**_ you," Wilson let out a pitiful whimper as the hand took itself away from where he needed, nodding. It hurt. It hurt in ways he could hardly comprehend. That ache festered into burning as he was dropped with disgust onto the floor. 

"P-Please-Please don't," he spluttered, shaking violently, "Please don't-don't stop, please." 

The silence was eerie. Terrifying. It was rejection. 

When Wilson dared to look upwards to his master he found a cold, disgusted man in his wake..."I should not have begun in the first place." It was a muttered statement, low, gravely, probably not even for Wilson, and it was punctuated by a swift, hard kick to Wilson's lower ribs. Pain. Everything was pain. Everything, from brain to body hurt too much to bear. Yet the pins and needles seeping through his ribs were enough, by some horrific miracle, to push him over the edge. 

He came with sobs, curling further into himself and shuddering through it, shame and confusion pressing like weights over his back. 

When he came to again he was alone. Utterly, painfully, wretchedly alone, stained with his own semen, imprinted with the shame and audacity of what had just taken place.

What had just taken place?

He refused to believe his own memory, refused to look down at the stains he felt, refused to acknowledge the bone deep horror that lingered within him like an infection.

It was impossible.

Shakily he sat up, uncurling himself and pressing up against the wall, keeping his eyes tightly shut.

Carter's hands were still on him, he felt them like phantoms carving up his thigh, stroking between his legs, forcing him to completion...Yet it had not been forced. He had begged and moaned and thrust right into his hand, wrapped his legs around his hips, and brought him closer.

_You should have let yourself get hung._

The cold glare that Carter had worn throughout the certainly-not-real-impossible ordeal hurt him more than he cared to admit or try to fathom. It burned him quick, that his master- his vile abuser and molester could not even pretend he was doing it out of any sort of lust or love.

No.

Throughout everything, Wilson could remember clear as day Carter had shown no signs of Wilson's horniness being mutual. Then why...It was all too much and he held his skull to keep his brain from slipping out of him, attempting to soothe the quickly mounting headache. Carter's face flickered just behind his eyelids. The cold glare, the fascination, the disgust...Like some horrid photograph, he looked back over the expression he had seen just before the kick had been landed. Now he could appreciate the finer details of the hurtful thing, the confoundment hidden in the pull of his frown. Like a man coming from a fog to find that he has done an unfavorable thing in his madness. William Carter's empty eyes had been less empty than usual, tainted with something that Wilson dare not name. 

Slowly, Wilson began to shake his head, disregarding -or at least attempting to- those memories. Took those images and relabeled them into something he thought may have been more tolerable. 

"It-It didn't happen," he whispered, over and over, like a mantra, rocking back and forth against the wall until he had sun the lie into a flimsy truth as he scratched fitfully at his arms. "It's all a-all a-all a dream...a bad dream..."

**Bad?**

_Why were you dreaming of him?_

A shudder coursed through him, violent and pitiful, compounding into multiple bouts of shivers until his very teeth were clicking together. He felt the crusted over stain on his pants like a stab through the belly, it told him that dream or not, he had ejaculated to the man holding him captive molesting him.

Wilson wept bitterly into his beaten-up palms.

Minutes dragged to hours, hours to eons, and Wilson wept. He wept until he had no more wetness left in his body to use as tears. Even still, he wheezed and scratched at his face and arms, trying and failing to make sense of anything at all.

_Failing._

_**Always failing.** _

Failing to do anything at all right, to be normal, to be something anybody could bear to look at for more than a couple of seconds, to be the child his mother wanted, to be the man his father could have respected, to be a man at all...Failing to beat Carter at his own game, to kill him, to escape, failing to keep his head above the stormy waters, to preserve himself against all of the attacks Carter had thrown at him...Failure even to just be normal, to live as he should have lived and died when he should have died, he should have drowned, or else offed himself when he had the razor, he should have never gone on that stupid yacht, to begin with...Should have done and not done so many things big and small, mammoth and insignificant.

He was a failure.

Absolutely, utterly a failure.

Something died in him as he lay there, shriveled on the floor. Something rotted and crawled out of his husk, escaped him. All he had was the phantoms of Carter's abuse and the chill of metal against his throat. 

**Freedom is a waste on you. You'll only piss it away like everything else in your miserable excuse of a life.**

There was the other voice that said it was all lies, that he was falling right into his capturer's hand, but it sounded so desperate, so ridiculous against all the evidence that seemed to be sewn into his very flesh, into all the scars and indents on his hands and arms, that it was made laughable.

**It is madness. Those voices are leading you astray. Little bugs. Filthy vermins intruding.**

As that thought settled over him, Wilson learned that he still had some water left somewhere in his body, and he wept.

**Sick. Sick. Sick. SICK.**

After those bouts of tears had been cried, he felt...something, though he could not name it, was too tired to identify it. It simply was. He was conscious and that was just about all that could be said of him as he dried his tear-soaked face and attempted to clean himself up. Not much could be done, alas, and he remained looking a perfect mess.

Limply his body leaned against the wall, hands clutching and fiddling aimlessly with part of his chain, idly feeling the cold metal and the weight of it against his hand. It was his. What else could he say that about? The clothes on his back were not his, every other object in his possession had bee n confiscated, according to William his own body and mind were not his any longer...All he had was the collar on his throat and the chain connecting him to the wall, all testaments that he was no longer his own man, yet they were distinctly his own. No one else had a collar. Carter had given it to him, only him, and declared multiple times that he was the only person which he had saw fit to turn into a pet.

_You are a man for god's sake! You're getting sicker and sicker by the day, you coward. Escape this hell and be free once more!_

He reached his hand upwards, grasping his collar. If Wilson meant nothing he would not have that collar, he would not have survived the hounds...

_Sick. Sick. Sick. SICK._

Exhausted, he soon found himself dozing off, not quite asleep, yet certainly not awake, and conscious enough to hear when the door to the study opened.

Quiet, steady footsteps measured out with soft thuds against the hardwood, silenced soon by carpet. Those feet were drawing near, yet his master -who else could it be- stayed eerily silent. Wilson was afraid to look up or give any indicators that he was alive at all. What had Carter come for? 

_To harm you._

**To do even more than last time**

Both thoughts startled him in very different ways. Thus he stayed even more still, waiting for his master's next move, mind flittering automatically to the worst. His mind fell back to before, after he had desperately -pitifully- asked for a kiss...The bruises along his torso still hurt under his pajama's. Perhaps Carter had come to do worse, come to finally put an end to him, to disgusted with him to continue their partnership. That thought alone hurt more than any injury he had physically gotten up until then. 

_Only you can tolerate you. Get out._

**You have only yourself to blame if he beats you, now. Stay right where you are and take it. He'll like you more if you obey.**

There was nothing to obey. The fact sunk oddly down upon him. William Carter had done nothing yet and showed no signs of doing anything anytime soon. He merely stood, overshadowing Wilson and his mat like an angel of terror and death, hovering and teasing Wilson's mind with questions and concerns yet never taking a blow at him, never giving him anything to act on. The older man simply stood and stared. 

Wilson could tell he was staring. He could feel those merciless voids turning him into mincemeat as he sat, attempting to conceal his fitful shivering. Those eyes did horrid things to his nerves, tore then things into nothing but shambles, until he could barely think straight. 

The silence was like an iceburg, the cold, hard mass scraping upon each of their sides until a low, growling, unhappy sigh was heard from above. 

"God damn this," Wilson did everything he could not flinch from his master's voice, no matter how uncharacteristically soft and frayed around the edges it sounded now. Some of the oppressive tension left the room, enough that bewildered Wilson felt somewhat safe in peeping up and asking the question burning at the back of his throat. 

With a rattling breath, he dredged up the hoarse words: "Did it happen?" A simple question, yet so torturous. 

There was a soft cursing after his words, as though he had startled Carter, followed by another short bout of terrifying silence. 

"Be more specific."

"Wh-the last time...the last time you were here...what happened?" That was good, he thought, vague. If it was a dream, Carter would know nothing of its sordidness, if it was not...

"You don't remember?"

That frightened Wilson, the tone, the vagueness, it all seemed to confirm the unfathomable, that he had been molested, that he had enjoyed the molestation. **That someone wanted him- that he wanted more-**

"I-I," he grew frustrated, demanding nothing but answers: "Just- just tell me what happened last night!" Sense returned enough to him in a moment that he tacked on a meeker: "please...master...just tell me..."

"Nothing." 

Wilson jostled his head up at last looking up to his master. Carter looked like hell. Pale, clothing somewhat disheveled, hair hanging over his dark, slight puffed eyes, which glared coldly down upon him, like he had scraped all of the emotions out of him singlehandedly, or tried to at least...Wilson could not help but find the view meloncholy. 

"W-what-" lost in the icy terrifying depths of the voids looking down at him. 

"I left." repeated Carter, stern scowl on his lips. "After I stitched your leg up, anything which you recall after that, anything that you think may have happened, was a dream. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happened after your wounds were dealt with."

Wilson knew one thing for sure, that was not assurance or notification, that was a _command_.

"Y-yes master," he found himself spluttering and not just for the sake of obedience. It was so much easier to go along with Carter's plan. It was better that it was a dream, a hallucination, a mere product of his desperate mind eating itself. It was better this way.

His logical side, the one that demanded facts, clamored at the back of his head. He pushed it away. 

**Master said it was a dream. It was a dream.**

that made sense, too, because who would ever touch him like that.


	14. Chapter 14

Wilson dreamed of kisses and caresses when he found himself dozing off.

He had never been kissed by anyone but his father, and his grandparents. Never outside the context of paternal tenderness or comfort. Though he was thirty now, he still missed those little kisses on the forehead that his father had given him as a boy when he needed them, especially after bad run-ins with his mother and nightmares. No romantic endeavors had happened to him at this point. No one had ever gotten close enough for that. 

He wanted a kiss.

He wanted his _master's_ kiss. _So sick was he now, getting sicker by the day. Sick. Sick. Sick. SICK!_

In his dreams the kisses were warm, caring, pecks on the lips and face that served as reminders that he was wanted, cared for, that it would be ok. Little meaningless actions of affection that comforted, and little else. Miniscule assurances that Carter liked him, perhaps even loved him, in some other world. That sort of attention, even in fictitious dreams, burrowed into his love-starved mind and nested.

The warmth of another caring embrace was mere foggy, gold-tinged memories far away in the past, blips of good against fields of grey and black. To exist near someone, have them care for you and worry about your well being, to have a shoulder to cry against, to have something to care for...He had it once, in his childhood. He was not a child anymore, yet he craved that protection more than ever. 

He was painfully aware that he had asked William for a kiss and been cruelly denied. But, his mind countered: **that had only been a dream, only silly fiction. There is still hope...**

_Why would we ever want his putrid lips anywhere near us! We've gone more than 20 years without any sort of kisses, we can go another 20._

Even so, thoughts of kisses nagged his early waking hours, even as Carter came in with his next meal.

"Took a little nap did we?' commented Carter as he placed the food down within snagging distance of Wilson's mats. Wilson only nodded, all too vividly remembering the subject matter, feeling the potentially lethal question rolling around, debating whether to slink up to his tongue and come out or not. No matter how rattled Wilson was, he was always down for a bit of food, and so set about eating all that had been given to him. "Once you're done with that you can change into some day clothes and do some walking. How does that sound?"

Walking, it sounded glorious. It was what he had been aiming and waiting for for so long now, at one point it had consumed him to madness. Yet now...He nodded, chomping on his eggs.

"Well," commented Carter, "I was expecting a little more fanfare than that. Is something on your mind?" Wilson looked up to his master finally, rather surprised that he had noticed, or cared enough to comment on it. That seemed to bode well for his dicey future as he set about asking his question.

"I-I have a question..."

"Very well."

" I was...uh...I had a dream, another dream, in a-in a sense, and uh...canihaveakiss?"

Carter gave him a beguiled look. "Did no one teach you how to talk? Speak up and slow down." Wilson felt his face flush even harder.

"...A-a kiss. Can I have a...a kiss?"

Once more, not for the first time, he felt he may have made a mistake as Carter stared down at him, deathly silent as his dark eyes drilled into him. "Why." He at last asked and it felt just as rotten as a kick to the ribs.

Wilson scrambled, making a few aborted noises before at last forcing out of his throat: "Because- uh- because- I guess- I don't know. It just...I just...I just...Want- I haven't had- it's purely-"

"Platonic is the word I sincerely hope you are looking for right now." It was, but had it not been, it suddenly _would have been_ the word anyway. The longer Wilson sat under his master's intense scrutiny the more he fell apart.

"Eat your food."

He only nodded, looking down at his toes as a shudder ran through him, not left anymore loved than previous. 

Wilson felt the disappointment bloom in his chest. It tasted like rejection, a drought he bitterly took down and barely stomached, though it should have been far more familiar. Still...He was not dead yet, he had not been berated or abused, merely misdirected. **Was it truly rejection, then?**

He allowed that little smidge of hope that kindled within him to exist, using it to power him onwards. 

Wison ate quickly, enamored by the prospect of moving his legs, and focused himself in on that, intent on making Carter happy. **Intent on making himself worthy of a kiss.** Repeatedly as he ate he bent and straightened his knees, loosening them up for the big event.

Once his plate had been cleared Carter came once more to him, brandishing a rather sleek gentleman's cane in his grip. "I found this in my summer closet. I will suffice for now." Wilson looked from his cane to his bad leg, brows furrowing.

"Do you think...do you think I might not need the cane? Perhaps my leg-leg can hold weight. I mean we don't know, do we? Sure the-the muscle is- well it looks pretty bad, but maybe..." Walking with a cane for the rest of his life did not settle well with him. He wished to be able to walk and freely as he did before the mauling, without aid. His pride was still dense, and he hoped to defy anatomy and walk once more. William looked unsure, though not unapproving, and shrugged.

"If you wish to test yourself, I won't stop you, only be careful."

Wilson nodded, getting his good leg under him and attempting to push off and up from it. It was a weak thing now, and while he could get a little ways off the ground he had to claw the wall for enough traction to pull himself up with. Even then, he wobbled, until Carter was compelled to come and stabilize him.

"Don't crack your head open on anything. I've worked hard to keep that brain inside your skull."

Wilson snorted to that, begrudgingly gripping the arms of his master as he put his bad foot on the ground, standing straight and tall. "A-alright, you can let go..." and Carter did, slinking back to watch as his pet stood, then took a breath and put his bad leg forward to take his first step...and deposit himself directly back onto the floor.

It all happened so fast, even William could not quite catch him as he put all his weight on the mangled muscles and found the hard way that that leg was out of commission completely. One moment Wilson stood tall and excited, then he was face down on William's carpet, groaning.

"Well," drawled William, "that answers that. Now come, take your cane." Wilson groaned in response, laying like a frightened stiff goat. "Don't give me that. Get up boy," snapped Carter, not unlike an annoyed grandfather. To that Wilson grumbled and grouched, cradling his injured pride, yet did as he was told, moseying on up and begrudgingly taking the cane being offered.

The cane assisted greatly in transferring any excess weight off of his weak but healthy foot. Still, his entire body was unused to this action of walking, help or no help, and he found himself being caught and steadied by Carter more times than he would have liked to admit.

For all his triteness, the older man was patient in these matters, calmly leading Wilson around in loops, as far as his chain would allow, allowing his pet to take all the time he needed to readjust, even encouraging that he slow himself. It was the phantoms of caring, of having concern. Wilson's troubled psyche ate it all up like a rich feast. 

"Don't rush yourself, slow and steady may win this particular race, though that is hardly applicable in most other scenarios." Carter at one point quipped, watching Wilson trying to speed up his weak shuffling. 

"I-I never was all that good at- oof" he bumped into a bookcase, though recovered gracefully, "never all that good at slow- or- or steady."

"Heh, me neither, but life has its demands," by now, somewhat assured that he wouldn't have to peel Wilson off the floor, he was more relaxed, still watching like a hawk, but leaned almost casually against the far wall of the office.

It was exhilarating, more than anything else he had ever experienced before, the simple act of moving, of hopping and scooting his rotting husk of a body in small circles was the most joyful occasion he could remember. He felt powerful, like a mighty lion ready to pounce on any antelope that comes near enough, held back only by his chains. 

"Alright, you seem to be getting a handle on yourself. Let us try this. Come to me Wilson," ordered Carter, pushing off the wall to stand all the way over behind his desk. Wilson felt a momentary pull of conflicting interests, yet the addiction to move was too great, the necessity to have at least one working leg to pressing, and he obeyed.

He was no better than a toddler really, but he made it, and the broad, proud smile that Carter gave him as he wrapped his arms around Wilson was enough to make it worth it.

"Marvelous job my boy, you're doing surprisingly well." and he pressed his lips to Wilson's temple.

It was startling, the sudden intimate warmth, the embrace, the kiss, the words, and he felt himself crumbling -literally crumbling- into them. Even after the chaste kiss had ended he could still feel buzzing just under his starved flesh. His dreams had come true! "You'll be up and at em in no time at all, thinks me." Wilson could only gawk up at him. 

"K-k-kiss? Y-you kissed- why did you-"

"Isn't that what you wanted?" Wilson nodded, to which Carter gave his head a little stroke. "We owners kiss our pets now and again, naturally, when they are good." 

**We're good boys!**

_Owners-_

"C-can I-Can I have another one?" He wanted to feel it again, to make sure it was no vivid dream or hallucinations. Those littles pecks are what he craved, what he needed. Carter scoffed, though not as unkindly as usual. 

"Greedy little thing you are...If you want little treats you must earn it like every other one of my hounds. I won't pamper you." 

Wilson hated that the request was perfectly reasonable, deep down he felt he ought to have a pampering, but nonetheless he bought into the incentive. "I-if I go to the other side of the room and back will I-I get anything..." 

"You'll get that satisfaction of having it made so far so soon after dehibilitation..." he allowed the statement to hang rather cruelly before finishing it off, "and you shall perhaps get something from me."

Wilson found himself, without recollection of moving, being halfway across the room already. His knees were beginning to shake, weakening up. 

_I...I don't need his kisses and hugs_...even to himself, the voice sounded flimsy and ridiculous.

The trek to the other side of the room was going rather fine, until he ran out of slack on his chain, not close enough to his goal for his liking. He grumbled, trying to out strong the chain and collar, straining against until at last looking back in defeat to Carter.

"You did what you could, come on back," Cater assured.

"But...hmm," he groveled, but gave up and turned back, going the way he came slowly but with purpose.

Alas, when he arrived, Carter gave him nothing but a smile and a pat on the cheek. "Good boy. I think that is enough for now..." suddenly there was a silver pocket watch in his hand, which he was flicking open. "We have some time before dinner and you have been quite good today, I must say, so how about you pick out a book and settle down for a bit."

_Book_

**Book.**

**_BOOK_. **

The words wiped any and all issues from his mind, became his sole focus, captivated him. Book. He had not held a book in his hands in...in so long. In too long. He missed the feeling of books, of learning, of settling down. By the awestruck expression on his face Carter deemed that his pet was perfectly content with these arrangments and he chuckled, watching a little drool slip down Wilson's lip. "Book?" the smaller man whispered. 

"Yes," confirmed Carter, "book, one book for right now. Go on, pick whatever you please out."

Wilson did not have to be told twice. He was on Carter's bookshelves like a bloodhound, sniffing ravenously out for something good. Instinctively he wanted to read all of it, every single novel on the iland, but a closer look at the titles which Carter owned made him rethink his parameters of 'everything'. Still, that did not stop him from picking out a book, then another, and another, until his master noticed that he had five books gripped to his chest like a mother with her swaddled child. 

"Oi! What did I say! One book," the older man snapped from his desk. 

"Bu-but-" 

"One book or none Wilson," he warned, steadily glaring until Wilson sorrowfully complied. 

"W-why do you have so many-many poetry books and-and all these plays?' He grumbled as he went about divesting himself of knowledge, doing very little to hide his judgment. He knew Carter was a sadist, but Dickinson, at least three volumes of Shakespeare, and a suspicious amount of Byron and Keats? "I-Is this some other-other way to-to torture your p-prey?" 

Carter peered at his pet through his spectacles now. "Though I will not cut myself short by saying I could not use those works as a torture device, I have very little reason to. I much prefer reading them, naturally."

"You-you actually like that stuff?" 

"You do not?" was the counter. Wilson dared to scoff.

"H-hardly. It-it's all frivo-frivolous non-nonsense. Do you have-" he was cut off. 

"Hold on a minute, hold." Demanded Carter with a sharp disapproving glare. "Frivolous those dead poets and playwrights might be, but nonsense? You are entirely mistaken!"

"I-It is!" Wilson argued, turning to stand up to his master head on. "A-all they do is yab-yabber and jabber about n-nature and de-death and love. Wh-what good does that do me- or any of us!"

"Uncultured swine! The 'yabber and jabber' is the human condition, about life and its beauties and toils. It's insightful!" Growled Carter. 

"I-Insightful? W-what are they looking into?" Yelped Wilson back. 

"Their own and others experiences-" Wilson dared to cut William short. 

"I-if I wanted to read-read some de-depressed over-overdramatic f-fat cats diary I'd-I'd...W-well I don't know what I would do but on-only because I've never wanted to do that. A-and if they're trying to m-make all these so-so called 'important points' th-the least they could have done is- is I don't know- make it comprehensible?" 

"It is perfectly comprehensible!" Insisted William, looking about ready to fight this out with blows. 

"No! They-they slobber all over the page with-with some bullshit about ho-how the leaves are falling-falling off the trees and there's a carriage waiting outside and cl-claim they've said something about the world; A-all they've really done is w-waisted paper!" 

"That's the art of it, you dolt! To convey your meanings through multilayered, vivid imagery held up by increasingly clever and complex comparisons through metaphors and similies. It is art!"

'If you have something to say just out-out and sat it damn it!" 

"Were you raised in a barn or something? Have you no appreciation for art, for cultures?" demanded Carter. Indeed, he was to learn, Wilson did not. 

"Oh shove your culture right up your own ass!" The younger man yelled, red in the face with passion. 

"I'll give you a bloody enema with one of those books if you take that tone with me a moment longer Wilson Higgsbury!" was the final blow to the flavorful conversation. 

With any other person, Wilson would have clapped back viciously. But with Carter...the chances of that being an idle threat were low enough to hold his tongue. Thus, he settled with glaring at one another.

They glared and glared, both unwilling to blink or break eye contact, even after their eyes began to twitch and burn. Wilson's resolve broke after more than two minutes in this position, having gone blurry-eyed a long while ago.

His ego was hurt enough by his failure that he grabbed a book fitfully off the shelf and went sulking back to his corner, set on losing himself to his book, far away from Carter.

Time flew by like nothing at all once he sunk his teeth in. It felt like mere minutes -in reality, it had been hours- before Carter was calling from him. "Eat your dinner, Wilson." Like an upset cat, he garbled out whines, still wanting to read. Carter was not best pleased with such mewling. "Wilson." there was warning in that tone, he ignored it and asked for twenty more minutes, just until he could finish the chapter. He had barely finished the sentence itself before the book was being viciously yanked from his hands. "No!" yelled his master over his yelps, "when I tell you to do something you do it. How can such a simple concept be so hard for your little pea brain to grasp." 

Wilson watched, wanting to cry all the while, as his lovely book was taken from him and put on Carter's desk. Moodily he turned to the dinner waiting for him, pulling it forward and taking the fork he was given up. "No, put that down!" Came his master's voice, thoroughly confusing and exasperating him. He threw the fork down on the ground.

"What now!" He snapped peevishly, "you told me to eat!"

"Did I tell you you could eat with your own hands?" was the equally annoyed response. 

"I- well- I assumed-"

"Exactly the issue. You assume that you have rights that you do not in reality possess." Carter came to glare over his mat, arms crossed and scowl vicious. "Anything you do you do solely because I allow you to. At any moment I can revoke such privileges. I'm holding the reins here, and if I give you a order the last thing I want to hear is bitching." With that he swept up Wilson's food into his own grasps, going over to one of the armchairs and sitting. "Come." 

Wilson wanted to disobey, wanted to rebel despite the violent pull of his conscience towards his master...yet he was so hungry...Hungry and sick of being punished. 

He just wanted one good night...So he went, begrudgingly, though kept his complaints to himself. Situated as he was now at his master's feet, sitting not on the couch, but in front of it, his patience nearly snapped when a spoon of food was held up to his closed lips. Horror crept through him, memories probing his brain from corners he had long strove to forget. 

White walls, cold cots, bandages and stitches and utter void, it all came rushing back, until he could see it, feel it- The violent hunger pangs, the chill against his bruised skin, the even colder metal of a spoon going in and out of his mouth, feeding him, forcing his body to stay alive even when...

He shook his head, keeping his lips pressed painfully shut, panic gripping the very core of his being, attempting to scrabble back to reality. 

**_The white room._ **

_Nothings changed. You just moved locations. You're still there, really._

**Be good or he'll throw you back.**

"Don't shake your head at me," Carter was shouting at him now. Fingers grasped his locks painfully, yanking him forward into the spoon. "I'll force it down your bloody throat you-" 

He whimpered. 

**_"Have you come to your senses yet?"...Tears were burning the corners of Wilson's eyes, saliva choking him and sliding through the gag as Carter clasped a hand over his cheek, raising his hand... he could not breathe. The tube...He was being opened up, cracked like an egg. Copper tainted his tongue and the saliva dripping down his chin was tainting with frothy blood. Carter kept going, hardly looking pleased himself. Inch by horrible inch he was entered, violated, forced to take that damn foreign object deeper and deeper, deeper than any solid should ever go into a human body..._ **

"P-Please stop-Please don't- not that- anything but-" 

"Eat! What in gods name is wrong with you!" He flinched violently. A spoon- _**a tube**_ \- "Wilson!" 

"D-don't not again- don't. I'll do- I'll- I'll do anything- just don't put me back there! No!" He tried and failed to scramble backward, still held by his locks, still faced with the reality of getting force-fed. 

"Wilson! I'm not putting you anywhere." A voice assured, a little gentler, "so long as you behave for me, you won't be going anywhere from my side. Come back down to me now, just eat, and remember who feeds you." 

That pulled him up enough to piece together what was happening

**nothing bad will happen if you just open your mouth and eat.**

**he won't send me anywhere...**

With haste he opened his mouth and took the food from the held up spoon. Pride be damned, he refused to go back to the white room. 

Spoonful after spoon full he took it all despite his disliking, sucking it down until there was nothing and Carter was satisfied. 

"I shall unchain you now and you can go get cleaned up for today, you need a shaving..." suddenly his hand came threateningly around Wilson's throat, his lips skimming his eat as he growled: "no more plundering razors, understood?"

Out of pure fear Wilson nodded. In truth, he had nearly forgotten the little razor from so long ago. It was almost laughable, his stupid frivolous plans of old, how he thought he would escape and go back home with nothing but a little blade and his own feral determination...Content, Carter let him go, then began fiddling with the back off the collar. Something clicked, and suddenly the weight of the chain dragging Wilson's neck downwards was gone.

"There we are, now, do you remember where the restroom is?"

It seemed like a stupid question, given that he did not even know where in the manor he was at this point. He only shook his head. Carter tsked, taking Wilson by the arm. "I suppose I must show you, then," he made a show of it, as though to rub in Wilson's dependence.

What was left of the old Wilson did not appreciate it and kindly took his arm back. "I-I'm fine! I'm sure I can find it on my own!" he snapped.

Carter's brow rose. "Oh?"

"I'm perfectly c-capable of navi-navigating myself, th-thank you very mu-much master." It dawned on him that he had not necessarily meant to slap master on the end of that statement, that that had been completely involuntary and natural.

Carter looked to be hiding a smirk. "Oh very well then, if you think you can handle yourself without me pet, go right ahead." and he settled into the chair behind his desk, taking his cigar case out of his jacket.

It felt so easy, to easy, to be let off so easily, it felt anticlimactic...he grew slightly suspicious, yet turned away and picked his way first to the wall which that cursed chain had prevented him from getting to, slapped it as proof of his victory, then hobbled to the door.

Here he froze. It felt so wrong, just up and walking out like a human being. It felt criminal, being anywhere near the door. 

_go. GO._

**Won't he stop us...**

"something wrong pet?"

"N-no, no I'm fine," he muttered before putting his hand on the door. Was Carter just going to sit and watch? Watch him leave? Watch him open the door and walk out alone? He was not concerned at all that Wilson might escape?

_He thinks he has us! He thinks he's won! Now's the time, go!_

It all felt like one trick, a test, one he would be beaten for.

_Not if you get out the door first!_

**He said it was ok...**

Despite his own skin crawling with discomfort he turned the doorknob and slid out into the hall, sparing only one more glance at a very smug-looking Carter.

_let it be the last you ever see of the horrible wretched sadistic bastard._

The hall 1outside was carpeted with rich, dark purple wallpaper and pieces of decorative art lining it. he looked both ways down the hall before choosing to go right. 


	15. Chapter 15

At first, he felt fairly confident of his navigational abilities, as always, unaware that failure was an option for men such as himself -it was always an option-. he hobbled with dignity, though every cell in his body was screeching that it was all wrong, that he was doing something highly illegal, punishable by death.

He pushed on, glaring ahead in this strange new land. 

_an exit ought not be too far away. Freedom is ours for the picking!_

**Freedom is just now being given to us... _Why fuck it up now?_ **

That gave him a pause. Slowly he considered his surroundings. What he saw before him was not a horrible white room nor Carter's office, he was not chained to anything nor was he grievously injured...He was alright. Perfectly alright, on the road to being even better, **once we get these dammed pests out of you.**

Any protests from those pieces of his old self felt far away and growing ever farther, getting ripped out piece by agonizing piece

**You're getting better.**

_You're getting sicker._

By habit he began gnawing on his lower lip, ripping the dead skin off as he looked at the carpet, attempting to gather himself together enough to continue on. 

If he could find an exit he would be home free, he felt, yet what was home? Doubts riddled him, did he have a home? He had a house, yes, but a home...? 

**Even if you do find a way out, Master will find you and take you back in, and he shall hurt you, perhaps even kill you for your insubordination.**

_We die on our feet then!_

...he forced away the crowding thoughts in his head, forced his breath to steady and heart to slow, trying to decide between what he could still recognize as two dangers. Escape or stay...Rebel or submit. 

He swallowed thickly, shuddering tearing through him as his nerves began to become undone. It was exhausting, this inner battling, it took all he had before he could put it elsewhere, made him wish for quiet, for a lobotomy. 

**Master will fix you up. He's already halfway there.**

That felt true, or something akin to the truth. It felt that it could have been true in some other, better world, and truer than the notion that he could escape and find anything better on the outside world...

_He sent you into a panicking fit just to sate his god complex not even a hour ago. Get your shit together._

With shakey hisses of breath, he looked to his lush surroundings and attempted to real himself in. He shook his head fitfully and began forward. 

What he came to see did not ease any of the tension within his spirit. Everything looked the same, of course, the wall decor was different, but essentially each hall he turned down was the same composition until he felt as though he were in a maze.

He had always loathed mazes.

He tried a few doors, finding nothing of use to him whosoever, each failed attempt driving newfound anxiety deeper into the pits of his stomach.

_Little Wilson had been confident going into the corn maze. It was like a puzzle, his father said, and his mother and sister had not disagreed. The children had been sent in together, while their parents promised to wait at the end of it for them, the first child out would get the biggest caramel apple, it was decided._

_Of course, his sister had ditched him as quickly as possible, sprinting away, and at first, he had been alright with that. He was so sure of his own victory, so sure he would beat her with no problem, given his superior intelligence...Now he was scared, it had been at least twenty minutes of endless walls of corn, walking and walking, with no exit in sight. He began to fear he would never get out, that he would die amongst the corn, that he would never see his papa again...and he began to cry, desperate to get out of the endless loop. panic further screwed his senses, until he could hardly think straight, could not stop thinking of starving to death because he couldn't find an exit. Tearfully he found himself calling for his papa. His papa did not answer._

_Finally, a nice lady had stumbled upon him, curled up in a fetal position, crying for his daddy to come save him, and had taken pity on him. she led them both out of the corn maze successfully, and little Wilson had never felt more relieved than when he rocketed into his father's arms, sobbing as he rattled on about how he got lost._

_"It's a maze you dummy, that's part of the fun," snipped his sister, already licking her glossy red apple._

_"Stop it, your brothers upset," his father had snapped, scooping Little Wilson up and going over to the lady who had gotten him out, thanking her. Wilson remembered turning to her as well, thanking her through all of his snot and tears as well._

Now, as he wound through endless purple hallway upon endless purple hallway, the experiences were loathfully similar. It all blended together the same way, and no matter where he turned, he seemed no closer to his goal, in fact, he began to think he grew farther away. He seemed to have fallen into a rabbit hole, a new pocket dimension that consisted only of halls and fear, endlessly, again and again. 

The panic was setting in. raw, uncontrollable, tightening his throat and skin until his flesh felt like it was trying to crawl off of the bone, his heart beat uncontrollably, and he felt like he was going to throw up at the drop of a hat. His leg was growing weaker with each limp as well, his knees more shakey, hands sweaty, and body overall less coordinated. Just like little Wilson in the corn maze, big Wilson began to think of death.

He would die here, not at the hands of any abuser, but swallowed up by his abuser's massive home. His lungs ceased working correctly. Would they even find his body? the humans surely would not, but hounds had good noses, especially when they were hungry, they would smell his rotting carcass and finish the job they had started.

What would he die from first, at this rate? dehydration or starvation?

**The bugs in your head.**

The bugs...the bugs would continue eating away at his brain as they were now, they would chew and chew and chew until he had nothing left, and then he would die. It would be slow, excruciating, and he would be alone in an endless purple hall.

He was on the floor without even having realized he had fallen. Carpet hugged his body as he curled around himself, practically dry heaving as his heart thudded sickly in his mouth.

He could feel them, the bugs, crawling around, he could hear the walls laughing at him. This is how he would die, alone, scared, miserable... tears burned his eyes, blurring his vision. "Someone...please..." who would help him? who would possibly help such a miserable stain on the ground as him? Instincts kicked in, and just like in that corn maze, he found himself calling for his father. "Papa!" He sniffled "...Please...Oh god...Please just...just help..."

His father did not come to his rescue this time. 

For awhile no one did, he was allowed to crumble further into the overwhelming panic eating him alive. Just when he was at the brink of complete madness and sorrow, someone was touching his shoulder, yanking him from the sea of confusion like the lord himself saving Peter. 

"Need some help, pet?" Cooed William Carter, brushing a few tears from Wilson's cheek. Wilson lunged upon him, nearly driving him into the ground as he wrapped his arms around the human being. Flesh, clothing, he touched everything, sobbing with relief. "What have we gotten ourselves into, hm? What's the matter?" As he spoke he rubbed the frightened man's back, calm and collected, a steady island in the midst of a hectic dangerous storm...a savior 

"William," he wheezed, wrapping arms and legs around the man's trunk.

"Hush you silly little thing," he purred, sounding amused. Wilson did not care, to thankful to have found someone else, to be saved. Gratefulness swelled up with him, filling every crevice of his heart, until he felt the vessel about to burst. "Let's get you to your destination, yes?" and he hoisted Wilson up, getting onto his feet with surprising ease. "Can't have you getting this lost again, now can we," and Wilson nodded fiercely, shutting his eyes and resting his head on the older man's shoulder.

They walked for a undiscernable period of time before entering a new room, the bathroom.

"This better, pal?" Carter asked, not without some teasing, as he set his pet down upon the marble countertop. Wilson nodded with a rather disgusting sniffling noise. 

"T-th-thank you," he garbled, ever indebted to the older man before him. Carter smiled, seeming awfully proud of himself. 

"You're very welcome, Wilson. tell me, what have we learned from all this?"

"t-tuh-to never go in halls," was his response.

"not quite," the older man corrected, grasping Wilson firmly by the chin, "See this hand Wilson," he brought up his thin, stiff hand. "This hand is what keeps you tethered to this planet and what keeps you safe in the halls of my home. You live for this hand and will fall in to line under it. Your very breath is sanctioned by me, for me, and the way you pranced around thinking you could 'navigate yourself' before you left was frankly disgusting and as we all see, ludicrous as well. You navigate nothing. You are nothing without me. Understand? " He nodded, very much in agreement. "Be verbal Wilson." 

"I- I- I can-can't navigate m-myself and should-should always let you st-steer me..." 

"Who is in control here?" 

"Y-you...and...and that's for the best..." He remembered all the messes he had gotten into on his own, all of which could have been avoided if he had just let Carter take control, or just obeyed him. "I-I need to stop- stop thinking..." 

"I wouldn't say that. I don't want a brainless pet. We've just got some work to do, is all. Call it long over due spring cleaning." 

Wilson nodded, wrangling with his own tongue. He felt obliged to tell Carter what had happened in the hall, what his aim had been....yet fear stopped him in that moment. 

_He'll beat you to a unrecognizable pulp and throw you out to the dogs._

"One more thing, then you can shave." 

**He can't help you sufficiently if he doesn't know the extent of the illness.**

"Who said you could call me by my first name?"

The question momentarily snapped Wilson from his thoughts. "I-uh, do you-you not want me to?"

"Master is preferred," he let go of his chin and began rustling through a shaving kit, "however...I suppose it would not hurt. We are rather familiar with one another, after all. as long as you remember your place I will allow it." Wilson nodded. "Now, shut up would you." 

Wilson shut up and was able to shave as a reward. He made quick work of it as Carter filled the tub with warm water. 

"Ah, brilliant," Carter cmmented once he saw his pets smooth face. "you look significantly less like a caveman. Now, get yourself cleaned up, preferably with some haste, you've run behind schedule." 

"O-oh, sorry," he stumbled out, shakily stripping from his old nightclothes. 

It felt so nice, an exquisite bliss after such intense soul-wrenching fear, to be in a pleasant bath and so nicely treated. He looked to William, who was observing from the side of the tub, and wondered how he had ever thought that this man was bad. He seemed nothing less than an angel, then, in that moment.

He deserved to know of Wilsons insubordination. 

"I- I..." He swallowed, shivering a little as his masters eyes drilled curiously into him. "In the hall, when I was- was wandering stupidly I...I thought I was...was going to escape. The bugs...master I don't know what came over me...But..."

There was a awful moment of silence before Carter spoke. "But you see now how ridiculous it is?" 

"Y-yes...I- for the record I tried to fight- fight it- tried to- theres always fighting in my head..." 

"It was a moment of madness Wilson, I see that. A moment of wretchedness, that's all, and you've come back to your senses." 

"Y-yes but- but what if it happens again- I can't...I just want to the fighting to stop..." He was so tired, exausted from the back and forth of his own mind. He wanted peace.

"It will, one day, be assured...for now just focus on your bath, alright, doesn't that feel nice? Don't take to long though, I am on a schedual." 

He could confirm, it did in fact feel nice. With some haste he bumbled around in the tub, disappointed in himself for being a burden on his savior. He was quick to grasp at something that looked like body wash, applying much of it to his hand before slapping it upon his flesh. 

"no you- that's conditioner," snapped Carter, quick to take it from Wilson before he could pour anymore out onto his hand, "expensive conditioner as well."

"c-conditioner," Wilson asked incredulously, looking at Williams's thin graying hair, "what are you conditioning?"

William shot a disgruntled glare at him. "oi! What's that to you," he snapped, smacking Wilson atop the head. "now look, here's the body wash," he shoved it upon Wilson, "and here is the shampoo," he pointed to another bottle, "then here is some perfumed oil."

"wh-what do I need that for?"

"So you don't smell like a sewer, I suggest you use some." and with that, he disengaged from the tub. "Now come on, hurry, I shan't let this drag on."

Wilson did the best he could, taking care of his body fairly quickly. His hair, however, was a different story. Even now, there would be no shortcuts taken with his precious locks. They had to be thoroughly scrubbed through with lots of shampoo, all of the thick layers given equal and thorough attention.

"My God," complained Carter after a while, "do you have to lather every individual hair strand?

"Yes!"

"Why!"

"Because-cause- it-it's one of my-my most redeeming attributes-"

"Well you may not be wrong about that, not that the bar is high at the moment..." he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "When will you be done grooming yourself miss Higgsbury." 

"Guh-give me...another thirty minutes maybe?" 

"Another-" he cut his own baffled cry out, dark eyes going wide with horror. After a moment, however, he managed to pull his facade back up. "Another thirty minutes, hmm?" Wilson felt fear creeping up his spine. "Uh...uh...if at all possible..." Carter gave him a cold smile, declaring: "It'll cost you." 

"C-cost me...cost me what?" 

"Your eyes, potentially your will to live..." 

He thought over his options, trying to weigh the pros and cons. He already had a strong stomach, had already beheld more than most his age had. Furthermore, it was not as though he had much to live for at this point. In essence, he had nothing to lose and hair to groom, and so shrugged, and once more began to care for his locks once more. 

Carter clicked his tongue, slipping his jacket off. "Very well. I shall teach you a thing or two about hurrying when I tell you to hurry. I don't speak idly, you know, and I will not be late to lunch." Buttons were being undone with masterful grace and one of the sourest expression Wilson had seen on any man to date. 

"Wh-what are you-" he watched with confusion as Carter stripped his waistcoat and shirt off, revealing an undershirt, and kicked his shoes off.

"You brought this upon yourself, Wilson," and he let his pants hit the floor.

William Carter was a very skinny man, to the point of looking sickly. He was all edges and bones, ribs jutting through his flesh, knees and elbows sharp enough to kill. His flesh was pale as death, almost ashen, and his trunk and limbs were littered with little battle trophies, a few which Wilson may have been the cause. Scars big and small gathered in droves particularly on his arms and legs, some old as time, others so new they were still scabbed...Wilson could not help but stare at the man now across from him in the tub. Carter took whatever shocked expression Wilson wore as horror and smiled ruefully. 

"This is why you hurry when I tell you to hurry, that way you shall not be faced with, this," he gestured with disgust down at himself before taking up the body wash. 

"Wh-what do you mean?" questioned Wilson. William raised a brow at him, stopping his suddsing.

"You aren't utterly repulsed by this?"

"N-No...sh-should I be?"

"Well that would be the natural reaction, thinks me. Besides, if you are not...well this ceases to be the punishment I intended it to be..." he seemed troubled by these facts.

"I uh...I've seen-seen worse..."

"don't patronize me Wilson," grumbled Carter. "Just pretend that you are repulsed, you hear me!" 

"Y-Yes sir, master, I am...I am absolutely d-disgusted and terrified...uh..." he gulped, hoping that was satisfactory, attempting to distract himself from the current predicament with the memories of those worse off men. The thought of that gore and horror brought a little smile to his lips. "No, really, I-I have- I have seen worse...It was p-pretty interesting, ac-actually. Just think, a-at least you st-still have all your limbs." 

"Many wish that was not so," William mused, smirking just a little at his own quip as he lathered himself up, "but yes, I suppose that has a certain level of truth to it." 

"The me-men from the war- oh boy, Th-they weren't a p-pretty sight, but the-they made good s-subjects."

"Subjects of what, precisely," asked Carter, a look of genuine curiosity on his face. Wilson, having never been asked such a question, reveled as he jumped into an explanation. 

"W-well, I-I've always had a fascination with-with the unknown- the unconventional. Th-this led me to many different experiments in bio-biology and chemistry- but primarily natural chemistry. B-breaking down n-natural elements into- into their rawest- in-indivisible forms- getting down to the purest-purest substances of a human body has always been a-a dream of mine. Imagine, i-if we can find what humans a really-really made of, every cre-crevice of em, down to the-the anatomical level and imagine that tho-those raw materials could harness and used- used to make, say, metals- if you were talking blood, which has-has iron and such in it, well if you could do that- maybe make some more substances out of us- u-use our own substances against us..." 

"You're suggesting that we use humans as an unlimited resource," clarified Carter, breaking through Wilson's typewriter rambles, entirely undisturbed. 

"Well, that-that's just one use, just one! Once we know everything- once we work all the raw materials out, break the human body down to it's most basic, useful elements, then-then more could be attempted." Wilson assured, something new and dangerous lighting his countenance. 

"Say, you said something about using 'our own substances against us?', what of that," questioned Carter. 

Wilson pondered, situating his thoughts and collecting his many hypothesis' and plans before plowing on excitedly. "Oh yes-yes, im-imagine, im-imagine...say biological warfare, w-we've been doing it since antiquity, attempting-attempting to wipe out-wipe out our enemies with toxins a-and illnesses. I-if we can fi-figure out what's in the human b-body down to a ch-chemical level, and we know what chemicals react badly with our chemicals on that minuscule level, ima-imagine the destruction! W-wars won in hours! Wa-wars not fought at all. Humanity p-potentially wh-wiped out in no time at all." He did not seem concerned about the grievous effects of his idea. Carter, for his part, looked a little lost, never having opened a book that even smelled of science since his early school years. Wilson picked up on this and launched right into an example. "Imagine, alright, imagine that you could shred someone's cells in an instant, with one injection, or pill, or something." Whatever image that conjured in Carter's mind, he seemed to injoy it, humming thoughtfully. 

"And tell me, how excruciating would it be for the victim?" 

"Hmm, well, I suppose that depends on how fast-acting the concoction is...It could be instantanious." 

"Baw! Instantaneous deaths are the most disappointing of them all. A slow, excruciating death is by far more satisfactory." 

"W-with the power of science-science, all things are possible," assured Wilson. 

"You think you can do it?" 

Wilson nearly jumped from the tub, shocked by the question. He looked up questioningly to Carter, who repeated himself. "Given the materials and the space and the bodies needed, you think you can get this so called improved biological warfare up and running?" 

The image was glorious, materials, space, subjects...Wilson was practically drooling as he nodded. Carter gave him a satisfied smile, leaning back against the tub. "Well, that works out quite well, given that I have a basement full of sailors I no longer have much use for..." 

"Y-You'll-You'll let me-" 

"You can have your own lab, with a fresh supply of whatever you need, so long as you find me new ways to make use of the prey on my island." Wilson was awestruck, overwhelmed with positive emotions crashing down upon him. Those were the conditions he had dreamed to live in, the world at his disposal, everything he needed for his most deranged, most revolutionary experiments. How had he ever thought bad of the man, how had he nearly convinced himself to escape, how! "Can you do that, Wilson?" 

"Y-yes! Ye-yes I can- I can! I will- th-thank-"

Carter cut his stuttering jumbled words off with his cooly applied question: "Tell me this, how did you acquire such interests? When did all this occur to you?" 

Wilson did not falter, knew the core of his intentions like he knew the scars on the front of his hands. "It started- started when I was-was attempting to plot the m-murder of my mother." 

Carter raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. "Is that so? Well come, did you succeed?" 

"In the murder? No, not yet- keyword-keyword yet. I will, one day, b-but I thought...Well, my thought was to f-find the mos-most excruciating for her- but the easiest to c-clean up for me. W-while looking into ways to-to liquify or b-burn the evidence, I-I ended up with a bunch of o-other unsuitable but equally f-fascinating possi-possibilities, such as-as the cell shredding concoction, or a bullet that could liquefy your organs, or a pill that could- could fry- literally fry- your brain..." as Wilson spoke his hands moved in meaningless, jittery motions, waving and flapping about restlessly, eyes sparkling with sadistic, inspired glint. 

"What made such ideas unsuitable for your purposes?" 

"Oh, all of those-those do their d-damage from the inside...I want the damage on the-the outside as well. I w-want her to look like my father did w-when they buried him. I w-want to- I want to rip her fucking guts out myself and see h-how she likes g-getting a shar-shard of glass between the eyes." Anger tinged his words now, a deep sorrow, wrapped in the passion of fury made his voice shake as much as his fists. None of what he had said had been idle in any way, this was no hyperbolic statement. 

"That could be arranged." 

That made Wilson halt. The words, just four little words, echoed around his skull, silencing all of his other functions. "W-what," he wheezed. Carter was still so casual, as though it were nothing at all, a mere day trip. 

"I said, that that can be arranged," he repeated, slower, more purposeful.

"You would...You would help?" 

"Yes," Carter answered, as though agreeing to tea. 

Something squeezed Wilson's chest, a burning sensation building, building, so many emotions attacking him at once, things new, fresh, and long buried. The mere thought this man could be his ticket to at last completing the one goal of his life, to kill that old bitch of a mother, to avenge his father- Suddenly he was on Carter, unable to show his appreciation any other way. 

Carter tasted like smoke and earl grey and he lapped upon that, deepening the kiss before he even knew that he had kissed the other man, melting into him, touching everything that could be touched just to assure himself it was not some mirage. 

How- How could he have ever rebelled against this man? 

At first, every muscle of his master's body that he graced was tense, no better than brick, but after a prolonged moment, he felt those limbs uncoil, become willing and pliant under his fingers. He even felt arms wrap around him, fingers stroking his spin, curling into his wet hair, yanking him closer even as he pulled their kiss apart. "Gee, I'll take that as a yes and thank you, ey pal?" 

Wilson could only nod, tears of joy brimming in his eyes. "Y-you'll make sure no one finds out?" 

"I haven't been caught yet," assured Carter.

"C-can I- can I kiss you again?" 

"I could tolerate a couple more kisses, to seal the deal, I suppose." Carter smiled as he spoke, stroking Wilson like a dog as the young man descended upon him once more. One kiss, soft, almost familial, a clear thank you, the second, pressed to Wilson's cheek was a bit more tender...And then there was more, Wilson crawling closer, body eager for touch, for something, anything- 

"Be a good boy and you can rip out as many guts as you please, that's the benefit right there, of keeping on my good side. Any fantasy you have, it can be reality here..." purred Carter, placing a kiss on his pet's temple, sending a shiver through the younger man as he steadied himself on Carter's shoulders. The words stole Wilson's breath, hooked him further in, further enslaved him to the man hissing them into his ear. "The worlds your bitch, if you keep in line, how's that sound?"

One more kiss, then another, then another, and suddenly it was something slower, sloppier, more breath-stealing, less sane. 

Wilson could see it now, all of it, a good life spent avenging himself, making people bow- finally, finally being the one on top of the pack, of experiments he couldn't even dream of before...He kissed Carter again, quicker this time, nodding into it as he pressing the man into the tub, crawling between his legs. Carter allowed it, breathing hard as he established dominance in the affection, melting into the foreign feeling just as much as Wilson...They both lost sight of themselves, so content, thrilled by thoughts of murder and the macabre, driven by an ache deep in their bones, loneliness...their bodies starved of touch, of so many other little things, that they found themselves tangled in one another.

It was like a dance, back and forth, Carter taking the lead as their flesh ground together and tempted them further. For a moment, a mad mad moment, it all disappeared.

For an even madder moment, all was right with the world. 

Suddenly there was lips pressing his cheek, his chin, his jaw, then his throat, even down to his shoulder, hiding in the warm crook of his neck. Thrills of pleasure coursed through him, tightening his chest and sinking into the pit of his belly as he was enjoyed, savored, _loved_...For the first time, he felt cherished, understood, he felt happy, and greedy for more. More pecks were given to his lips, and suddenly he was being pushed back, though not harshly, so that his back was the one on the porcelain tub and William was the body shadowing over him, dominating his every cell as he peppered kisses everywhere. The kisses Carter was giving him were blind ones, for his eyes were closed as he pressed closer and connected their lips together with a longing Wilson could hardly even comprehend. 

He didn't care what his master's eyes were doing, only that those thick, impossibly hot lips were worshipping at his neck now, that his hands were sliding down his flank to clutch his hips, that he was leaning up now, carving back up to his jaw, to his ear, eyes fluttering open as he breathed lovingly against the shell of Wilson's ear: "oh _Charlie, love..."_


	16. Chapter 16

Everything shrieked to a halt. 

**_Charlie._ **

That was, last he checked, not his name...Carter seemed to comprehend his mistake momentarily after Wilson whimpered, slapping him harshly across the face and scrambling from the tub. 

It had all been going so well, so awfully well...A bitter, unpalatable agony tore through his chest, burrowing deep under his ribs and shredding his lungs apart from the inside out. Tears blurred his vision as he hit the cold marble floor, scrambling back from the tub like a frightened crab. 

"Wilson," he vaguelly heard from his master. 

Betrayal was all he could see, in every line of his face, in every movement as he rose from the bath, all he saw in William Carter was awful, soul-wrenching betrayel. 

_He never loved you. He was just pretending, overlaying another face onto yours._

"Y-you fucking-you fucking prick-" he spluttered, grasping blindly for his cane, hunching on his knees as he shivered, sniffling. William was saying something to him, which he could not quite reach, so far lost in his own inner turmoil. It was all crashing down, the bliss, the satisfaction, those warm feelings that he had so happily soaked in, that trust. He had opened himself up to his master, bore his dreams and his wants and shared his first kisses with him, his first real throws of passion, only for it all to crumble around his ears. "Why?' he cried, finally grasping his cane and launching up into a standing position, stumbling towards the door. "WHY," his voice cracking as he shrieked. 

There was a ringing in the distance, growing louder and louder as his heart roared in his ears. Everything shook as he retreated. 

He wanted to leave forever, go, never return, go back to his home where he was appreciated by his own self, if not by anybody else. 

_You don't need anyone else. You have yourself and Science. You don't need him._

**It was a simple mistake...**

No one made any attempt to stop him as he stumbled away, out into the hall. Under the ache, he could feel something else beginning to simmer, something more familiar, almost comforting, like returning to familiar land. _Anger._

Blindly he stumbled along the halls twists and turns once more, a terrifying sense of de-Ja-Vu taking him by storm. This time, however, he did not have to struggle long before he ran into a servant, who seemed surprisingly unshocked by a naked, emotionally disturbed man blabbering about the need to go somewhere, anywhere, so long as it was away. The servant aided him by taking him to Carter's office. 

"No!" shrieked Wilson, backing up even as he was grabbed, "No not here! N-n-not here- don't! Away! I said away!" 

"Master's orders," grumbled the lad with about as much emotion as a ceramic pot, forcefully dragging Wilson into the office despite his best attempts at escaping. 

"H-He doesn't want-want me! He doesn't-" he lost himself to that boiling pit of anger growing stronger within him. "NO ONE WANTS ME." He howled, hands shaking violently even as he clenched them, teeth aching as they ground together. "N-NO N-NO ONE E-EVER WANTS-WANTS ME, NE-NEEDS ME, SEE-SEE'S ME. I-I'M NOT-NOT NOTHING- I'M SOMETHING. MAYBE I WA-WANT SOMETHING. MAYBE I WANT A-ATTENTION- MAYBE I-I DON'T DE-DESERVE TO BE THE SE-SECOND CHOICE. MAYBE-" viciously he kicked the nearest wall, ramming his foot against the wallpaper over and over until his toes were bloody and burning. 

He continued to scream and to cry and to punch and kick until he physically could do it no more, collapsing on his mat with exhausted sobs of defeat and agony, so desperate, so needy, so fucking lonely.

He whimpered, holding his head in his hands as though massaging his skull would quell the voices within. no such thing happened.

The battle raged, and raged, the dying lights of his old self viciously attacking the new aspects of his current self like an immune system attacking foreign germs. He was so tired of the back and forth, the noise, the constant conflicts...if one could only win, if one could only give him a clear pathway to action.

he was sick, so sick, sicker then anyone could deal with. Everyone saw his illness, though of him as nothing but a festering corpse that refused to shut up and go away. 

Everyone hated him. No one saw the brightness of his mind, a mind that could conquor the world if only people would fucking listen. 

Degradation was something he was familiar with, he did not like it, not when he was so much more brilliant then the fuckers who subjected him to their slight insults and disproving glares, to the little snips that piled up and ground like bark against skin, the obvious distaste that they thinly masked with self-righteous toleration.

Then William came along. Wilson stumbled upon him, showed his worth by surviving him, intriuged him enough for him to save him from hounds...yet here he was again. Always here. Always tossed aside, always forgotten and ignored, always expected to be something he cleary was not. Everyone wanted him to change, everyone called him by the wrong name, no one wanted him...His own mother, the bitch that he birthed him, never want _him._

A man, yes, she wanted a man, a man to go out and be better then his father, a man to work himself to death and be the martyr of proper society, not Wilson. She had never liked Wilson. She had spent her whole life trying to beat Wilson out of the son she had expected. 

William was doing this same thing...

The struck him like a boulder, crushed him underfoot with a sneer. 

William didn't want Wilson either, William wanted a pet. A little doggie to yip at his heels and give him due attention. Not Wilson. Never Wilson. 

Everything was such a whirl of confusion, of anger and pain and frustration and helplessness...

**_"CAN'T ONE PERSON FUCKING CARE FOR ME, JUST ONCE."_ **

Tears choked him, lungs failing, nails waking down his own face as he struggled not to throw up. 

Thats all he wanted. All he had ever wanted. He wanted his father back, he wanted those days where he had a shoulder to lean on, a warm embrace to fall into, someone to protect and cherish him and listen for gods sake- to love Wilson, not 'the thing Wilson could be'. 

"You fucking prick-" he wheezed, remebering all the little affections and carin words Carter had given him, all the assurances and the conversations. Carter had made him feel understood, packaged his cruelties as trying to help him, trying to cure him, had pampered him and taken advantage of his touch starved mind. 

"I just...I just wanted...I just..." 

Someone was there, touching him softly, calling for him.

He hissed, temper snapping at last, emotional capacity maxed out, all the confinded battling energies within him violently wanting release, and he lashed out.

The perpetrator yelped as his hand met their face, and they were soon pinned down on the ground as he growled, hands moving in a dizzying order to mame and harm.

It was utterly delightful to final have control over something. To final have power again, to purge that toxic anger and sorrow from deep within him, to unearth all the feelings he buried deep within his bones and spill them out with each strike he landed upon his victim, until he felt the warmth blood caressing his knuckles. Nothing was more satisfing then the snap of bone and tearing of flesh.

It was was all a whirlwind, a haze of agonized glory, until he collapsed upon the dead body he had torn apart, basking in its blood and its warmth and the fact that he was so utterly relieved of the tension that had built up for years within him.

He dozed slightly, snuggling the body, falling into a lovely comatic haze.

"How was it?"

that woke him up. He grunted, slowly looking up to Carter, who stood passively by the door.

that faltered Wilson, he frowned, looking down at what he had done.

It had been a girl, a servant, one who looked awfully familiar. "huh..." he peeled himself off of her, brain scrambling to connect dots.

"It's reviting, isn't, the murder of a individual, and you seem to have put much passion into it...My first murder was messy as well, tis only natural, but I shall teach you to be neat about it."

"T-teach..." he remembered now who she had been. She had been the girl to offer him food when he had been starving himself, the one who had promised to lie to Carter if he did it, and who had understood him all the same when he professed his wish to starve. He had literally torn her open, scratched her face bloody, ripped open her dress and ripped into her stomach. She was everywhere. He remembered also why he had killed her. 

"That was my intention, yes."

"Fuck you," he hissed, the anger boiling up within him. Everything he had felt before came back to him, even more potent now that the perpetrator was right in front of him within killing distance. 

Wilson growled, over come with the need to escape, to rid the planet of this awful man, to avenge himself, like a animal with its leg caught in a trap. He shakily rose, breathing harsh as he looked the old man right in the eye and charged.

They collided together viciously.

they struggled together, both keeping steady ground, kicking and shoving and trying to get enough upper ground to land a real blow.

"This again? When are you going to realize-" hissed Carter, nearly toppling Wilson over.

"You're brainwashing me- trying to- trying to kill me-" he finally got a kick into the older mans legs. "trying to make me into your little obediant slave- fuck you- I'll never- I'll never submit to you! As long as I have eyes to see a exit- fuck- I'll never submit." 

"All this because I called you the wrong name?" 

Wilson was caught enough off guard for Carter to get his upperhand, decking him before clamoring on top of him, pumeling his fist into his nose.

"Your pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. But I quite like my pet, you know, I care for my property." 

Wilsons nose was broken, he could feel it, but that did not stop him from bucking and clawing at his captor, screaming to high heaven as he struggled beneath the mountain that was Carter. "You-you don't! I'll wear your skin as a-as a coat when I get off this god forsaken-" his voice broke into a shriek as his fist slammed into his left cheek. he choked as a tooth came loose, and he spit it out at Carter.

"Look pal, you're not the only bloke that's wanted me dead. Everyone wants me dead," Carter growled, "But I'm still here. They all fail. For gods sake even _I_ can't wipe myself off this miserable planet. And trust me-" Wilson swipped up, raking his nail against Carters thin cheek. The older man yelped, biting that hand viciously before he could get away, gripping the wrist with both hands. " _ **I have tried.**_ " Wilson saw his chance through the pain, finally leveraging the old man off of him, but not before he could wrench his wrist back until it snapped.

The pain was immense, awful, and he used it to strike out on the old man. His fist took great pleasure in slamming down into Carters left eye, before darting down to choke him like he always choked him.

The sounds Carter made were inhuman, his expression ugly with fury. Wilson had never felt better in his entire life, body thrumming with pations, alive for the first time in so long- suddenly fingers looped under his collar and he was tasting ground, cutting his gloriful reign to a end.

The downfall was swift but painful, Carter was on top of him again, smothering his face in the ground. He howled and squirmed, but nothing could keep him conscious as something heavy and quick struck the back of his head.


	17. Chapter 17

He woke up in chains, bound tightly, cold, and furious. All around him there was nothing but shadows and stone floors. No light, no end to the void, just a dungeon. 

"Come on!" he called, squirming like some demonic worm in his chains. "W-what is this? To cow-cowardice to fight me yourself, you have to restrain me?" he screamed at the grey stone floor in front of him, hoping that Carter could hear him.

"Oh no, I don't fear you, but I'm getting rather bored of fighting you." Carter's voice reverberated around the room and the man appeared from the shadows of the dungeon he seemed to be entrapped in. "Let's have a chat old pal, hm?" Wilson hissed, readying saliva in his mouth to spit if his oppressor got close enough. "I want my pet to myself, undisturbed. Unhindered by _you_."

"I want-I want you to fuck right off to hell. I don't want your so called care, your attention, I don't want you, nor do I need-"

"You're perfectly correct Mr. Higgsburry, you don't _need_ me, not in any meaningful way, as I see it. Let's change that, shall we?"

"What-"

"I've noticed that I like my dear pet best when he is utterly, irrevocably dependent upon me. His best attributes come along in those moments, he becomes rather docile when he knows I am the one hand holding him like a spider over a pit of flames. He is good, then."

"I-I- he's sick and cowardly! Y-your making me si-sick!"

"No, on the contrary, Higgsbury, I'm making you better. Think of it as getting refurbished."

"Bastard! Stop that-"

"I tried to show you the easy way, really, I have given you more than enough time to shape up, come to your senses, heal, and submit to your rightful master-"

"I am my own master!" insisted Wilson, interrupting Carter. "I'll gu-get out of here, it does not matter how-h-how many dungeons you lock me in, how min-many chains you wrap me in, I will escape and I will make you regret-"

Carter smiled. "No you won't."

"I'd rather die..."

"Then why did you not kill yourself? you've had plenty of chances. Nevermind, don't answer, I know your thinking. There's a light somewhere in that dark mind of yours, a little flame that ignites and triggers my pet's insanity, plagues him, and births _you_. Fortunately for me, you handed the solution to me yourself. My pet has his own little light, or at least, he will, and that light is me." He was approaching Wilson now, like a hunter creeping to his prey, eyes alive with anger, with bloodlust. "Only me, you hear?"

"Wh-what are you- nothing you can do will stop me. I won't-"

"Oh...I will miss this ridiculous persistence of yours. It's amusing now and again, reminds me of myself...But all things must come to an end, this especially. And this is the end. I promised to purge the sickness from his brain and that was no idle promise. I tried to domesticate him humanly, train him up like I would any other hound. I tried to do all of this simply and relatively painlessly. But here we are. You have given me no other choice."

Terror swept over him, yet he fought to keep his head above waters, gritting his teeth viciously. "I-I won't...What are you-" 

"Save your breath. I am going to leave you with a question, only one little question, and I want you to think very carefully about it." He paused, as though that would make Wilson listen to him to a higher degree. "I am giving you one last chance to come to your senses and except your new position. One last chance to stop this lunacy, this madness, before I am forced to take more grievious actions to secure your obediance. I promised my pet that I would root out his illness. So, do you want to do this the nice way or the ugly way? Don't answer now, think about it, I shall even give you time alone with yourself." 

And he left, then, despite all of Wilson's hissing and howling and insults.

Wilson was left to think, despite his mind being in shambles. With only the darkness and the eerie silence to befriend him, these shambles only grew more disjointed, furious with the happenings, terrified at the implications of 'more grievious actions'. 

This was it. 

He knew it was so, felt it in his very bone marrow. It choked the bitter air of the pitch dark room, like a smog. Wilson was currently at the very final ledge of a tall hill, gripping the edge of a steep cliff with bloodied raw hands. Two forces stood opposing him, had kicked him down this far, were intent on kicking him right down the rest of the way, into the ravine below. Nothing looked very good for him right now, chained and abandoned as he was, but that did not mean the war had been lost. 

**Won.**

He grit his teeth until his jaw burned, steeling against all of the vile thoughts planted by his enemy. 

**His master. Savior.**

_Abuser. Capturer._

**He is trying to help you.**

It was all mere temptation, a trick of the mind, seeds of sickness sowed by Carter to pull him right into his hand. 

**Stop fighting.**

Wilson had always fought. That was the one thing he could be counted on to do. He would claw and drag at every turn if it meant he could prove himself victorious, if he could hold his ground and finally, finally come out on top of something, as he ought to have so long ago. This was no different, he would fight this to the very end, which was drawing closer with each breathe he took. 

The dungeon he was in was dark, dank, the chains around him were cold, chaffing, and every breath seemed to hiss from his lungs and echo a thousand times around him. He could see nothing and considered himself at times in a void at the end of the universe. Alone, utterly alone. 

_**This is what you wanted. You wanted to be alone.** _

"W-with my-with myself-w-with my experiments, not-not this- never this...This is-is torture," he muttered, shivering. 

_**Same difference, really. You sit and rot here doing nothing with no one, just as you sat doing nothing there with no one.** _

_They were not nothing._

The silence was worse than any response, really, and he chaffed under it, desperate to fill it with anything, anything at all. "It wasn't- It wasn't nothing. It wasn't! It was imort-impo-" he choked on his own words, letting out a frustrated scream as he strained against the chains. "Damn this- this STUTTER." 

His stutter had been one of his worsts nemesis' in his youth. He loathed it enough to defeat it, to force himself to talk right, the few times he did talk. He had worked obsessively to obliterate it, pacing back and forth his room reading books out loud until he was hoarse and blind from frustrated tears. 

_"Hey champ-" his father's greeting was cut off as he looked over his son from the doorway. Little Wilson was sitting on the floor, crying with tightly clenched fists, his history book chucked against the opposite wall. "Hey, what's the matter?" he was quick to shut and lock the door behind him, rushing to kneel by his son, who looked up to him, sniffing violently._

_"I-I can't do it!"_

_"Do what? What's happened Wilson, can you tell me?"_

_"T-t-this-th-this- th-this stupid- st-s-s-stupid stu-tt-stu-" he let out a shriek, fed up with himself and his rotten tongue. His father jumped, flinching at the sudden noise, before folding his boy into a hug, hushing him gently._

_"Come on, what-uh-what did we say about that stutter. It isn't so bad, really, and it's getting better but-"_

_"J-just cu-cut-cut it-cut it out- just- papa just- can't you just cut this s-stupid tongue o-out? Can't you?"_

_"What! Wilson, no," he panicked, frightened that his son would think such a violent thought as that._

_"W-we can just...we-we can find a replacement!"_

_"No-" he reigned himself in with a shaky breath, kissing his son's head, "No, champ, that isn't how that works. We won't be cutting anything out of you, alright?"_

_"B-but-but they always-everyone laughs at-at me, no-no one listens to- to what I say- no one- mama-Mama keeps s-scolding me. I can't help-help it- I can't- papa I can't help it!" He was clinging to his father now, yelling into his chest hysterically. "W-why can't I just-just stop it-"_

_"I...wish it was that that easy champ, I really do...but you have to patient with yourself, these things don't happen overnight."_

_"Why not!" Little Wilson demanded, angry suddenly, baring his teeth up at his father. Dr. Higgsbury sighed, rubbing his son's back, giving him a sad sort of grimacing smile. "Because," he said, "I suppose that's just how life was made to be."_

He had destroyed that damned stutter, just like he would destroy Carter. Because he would, he knew he would, he had to...What could the man do to him that he had not already done? Wilson had been through the ringer and he may have fallen and stumbled, but he had survived, he was still here, still kicking. There was nothing more that he could lose. 

**There is always something to lose. Obey. Stop this madness.**

_You are the mad one here! You obey, get out!_

He shook his head, as though that would help knock the demons from his head. Blood rushed through his ears, his heart knocking against his ribs as he made up his mind. The strings of his past, his resolve, the old version of himself that he yearned to be again, were growing thinner by the day, but he gathered them now and wove them together, pulled and yanked until he had enough to make a blanket for himself. His anger was stroked up as well, like a fire. 

Fear was there to, he was afraid of what would happen to him when his torturer came back, but... 

_"Papa- Papa-"_

_His father blinked awake, mumbling something incoherent as he squinted through the dark of his office at his son. "Wil.."_

_"Papa a-a-a-re ya-a-you ok?" he garbled, twadling over and practically face planting on his fathers stomach, little fingers gripping his shirt front. Dr. Higgsbury was more awake now, grunting and putting a hand on little Wilson's back. "'m fine, what's the matter champ?" His voice was still thick with sleep, but coated in concern now that he was awake enough to see and feel his son crying. "Did you have a bad dream?" His son nodded, sniffling, still burrowing into his fathers torso for comfort. He was trembling something fierce, terrified by whatever he had seen, still not quite believing that he was ok, and that his father was alright as well._

_His father grimaced, hating to see his son like this, and sat up just enough to pull Wilson into his arms. As of late he had been hunkering down in his office, sleeping on the couch rather then face his wife in their bedroom. So, he pulled him up onto the couch, onto his lap, pulling the blanket around both of them before settling back down. Gently he manuvered his sons head down to where his heart was beating. "Just listen to that Wilson, alright, count the beats for me."_

_"o-one, tw-two," he hiccuped, shuddering again and losing count. "O-one, two, thhhree, f-f-four..." and he continued, counting the beats of his fathers heart, focusing on that, letting it lull him into a sort of calm trance. Every now and again his father would stroke his head, telling him he was doing good, until at last he calmed down for good._

_"Good, very good, that helps doesn't it? It's a little trick I learned for when I'm afraid, I just listen to my own pulse." His father told him, wiping the tears from his sons eyes. "I do it til I'm back in sorts. But if I'm still scared, you know-"_

_"Ya-you ge-get scared?"_

_"Yes, I get scared. Everyone gets scared. But you know what I do to stop being scared? I take that fear and try to make it into a box, or a stepping stool. Not literally of course. But just imagine that it's a stepping stool, something you can use as propulsion forward. It'll try to swamp you, but you've got to wrangle it down and let it inspire you to keep going, despite it."_

He remembered those words now, as vividly as though they had just been spoken. His father had been a very fretful, unhappy man in his core, yet he had always kept going. All Wilson had to do was keep going, so he took all that fear of Carter, all the terror that he felt for himself, and he pushed it down, made it his bitch, and let himself use it as stabilization. 

He was scared of Carter because Carter had hurt him, mauled him, played mind games with him until he could hardly remember his own name, and all of that made him an utter, disgusting, intolerable bastard that deserved death. 

With all the failing strength in his soul, he scraped together something that looked like resolve and waited. 

The darkness was maddening, as was the silence, which had its own ways of unnerving him, still, he stayed steady, waiting for his enemy to return for their final showdown. To his bosom, he pressed closest the memories of home, dusty and distorted as they were, like sand sliding through his fingers slowly, inevitably. Still he clung to it, still he breathed life in the dying flames within, and still, he waited. 

However long it was that he sat there he could not begin to comprehend, but it all faded away as he heard the awful creek of large metal hinges grinding together and light momentarily flooding into the dark dungeon. He had to close his eyes against the sudden flash that blinded his eyes, but had caught a large enough glimpse to know who had returned to him. The door was left cracked open, allowing some dim light to exist in the room, while echoing, crisp footfalls treaded towards him. 

"Have we made up our mind, pet? Are we going to do this the easy way and go back upstairs, or the hard way?" His voice sounded as though either of those choices was good, like the easy way was real mercy. Wilson took a deep breath, steeling himself, resolve faltering once, twice, before steadying. 

"Fuck off," he snarled. "Do what-what you please, see if I fu-fucking care you sl-slimy bastard. I-I'll never bow a-a knee to you!" 

The silence that proceeded his declaration made him regret every choice he had ever made in his entire flimsy existence. 

"Very well," was all that was said to him, and with a solemn air, Carter went away from him again. 

Something cold settled in the depths of his stomach. Carter disappeared into the shadows of the cell. Metal clicked, a lighter flared, and Wilson could smell smoke as Carter came back into view. A white towel was flung over his shoulder, a cigar hanging from his lips, and a knife held in his left hand. "Have it your way." 

Wilson screamed as Carter grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look him in the eyes, craning his neck back and keeping his head still."You said once, that as long as you had eyes to see the exit that you would never admit defeat..." Wilson growled, attempting to spit at him. He sneered down at him. "Pal, a word of advice, you really should stay away from telling your enemy such things." He took his cigar from his mouth as Wilson screamed and squirmed, attempting to get away, to leave this horrible place and this horrible man before he could do any of what he had planned.

He was wide-eyed with terror and hatred and desperation, the little strings of his plan pulling taught. He would survive. He would escape. He would leave. The door was open in front of him. He would see his home again. He would...He did not quite know what he would do as he watched Carter's burning cigar butt descend downwards.

The pain was horrific as the tip was crushed directly onto his right eye. It blanked his mind, consumed him, obliterated him. He could do nothing but howl as Carter held the cigar there, scream and choke on his own vomit as the pain racked over him. All the strands he had worked so hard to gather, the sand he had tried to block from escaping, all of it left in one fatal moment. All the resolve, all the anger, the terror, the hatred, it fled and left him only with harrowing pain. 

**You brought this upon yourself.**

Even when the cigar left, the burn, the heat, the horrific pain of it, was still there and throbbing. still forcing ungodly sounds from him, reducing everything he had been to nothing. Nothing at all. 

**He's purging the sickness, burning the bugs out.**

His burnt eye was a mess of blood and burnt flesh, flecks of ash still lingering to torture the ruined organ.

Wilson was dry heaving, trembling so violently, straining against his chains, tears and blood and ash staining his cheeks. Carter whipped some of that mess up with a gentle hand. Wilson comprehended none of it, comprehended nothing at all, lost in the pain, in the void of obliteration. 

Something was happening to his left eye. More pain. Somehow. How was there more pain? Something was being taken from him, things were being ruined, confiscated, he was being tarnished beyond repair.

**Healed. You're being healed.**

He was being emptied out, like a duffle bag full of trash. 

The little flame was going out. Wilson was going out.

It was over.


	18. Chapter 18

He awoke cold, in pain, in total darkness, and alone. The energy had been sapped from his bones, he lay on the cold ground like a puddle of slime. 

All was void.

Darkness, silence, the pain with each blink that didn't quite reach him. Nothing could reach him here. Where was he? _What_ was he?

There was very little difference now between waking and sleeping...all was dark, all was quiet, and he was nothing. Like a ragdoll he continued to lay, cold, every now and again shivering, occasionally attempting to remember what had led him here, who he was at all...It was all more voids. If his mind did recall something that could have been considered a memory it was clothed in lagging, foggy shadows, nearly indiscernible beside the barest of details. Nothing. It was all absolutely nothing. He was nothing.

It was as though he were merely wearing the skin on his bones, it was not his, and he was not necessarily connected inseparably with it. It was a blanket, bruised and bloodied, telling of desecrations he could feel but not quite recall. 

He felt in his bones that there had been a time when there had been something, anything, and it began to taunt him like a mirage to a dying man. Suddenly the void felt less like the universe and more like a closet.

There was nothing here, yet there was something somewhere, out there, wherever 'out there' was. He yearned for it. They started like a little whisper, a mere echo of something old. As time passed, however, it grew like moss...spiteful moss. Each time he woke alone, in that pitch black, he found that the want had grown.

All he had was this sack of flesh and it's pains. 

From echo, to whisper, to nagging, to burning, the want for something, anything, overpowered him. It drove the first sounds from his lips besides sighs of pain, drove the first actual words from his throat, shakey and raspy as they were. He began to move and shift and live again, but only minimally, only so that he might search out and call for actual life. For whatever was beyond his closet of hell. 

Why had he been put here...no answer was available to him, further driving in that sorrow. 

Any spark in the dark was a welcome one, but the pain radiating from his eyes and wrist could only give him so much, the echo of his cold limbs only aided the numbness he was suffering from.

He needed a match to strike, to light the way forward...

He had gone to fiddling with his chains. They made noise, which was better than silence. Silence was horrible, terrifying, it allowed his mind to wander into confusing and horrifying alleyways, or it screamed at him in its own language. Anything was better than the silence. So he jangled the chains on his wrist and neck, he hummed forgotten tunes through his own sniffling and whimpering.

Time no longer existed to the broken shell in that dungeon, so that when the door of his cell creaked open one day, he could not have determined whether he had existed for one minute or one eternity in his own little hell. It did not matter to those torn remains of a man, for something was happening. Something new. Something at all.

"Pet." A deep, gravely, accented voice said, and Wilson began to sob from joy. It was not a something, but a someone, it was noise, it was- the someone was near him, somewhere, and he lunged towards it. At first, he missed, scrabbling with his hands, still unable to see anything, until at last, he skimmed polished leather. A foot, he was touching a foot. A human foot. At once he adhered himself to the mans leg, feeling soft trouser material, which he moistened with his tears, garbling incoherently in his blinding relief. 

Suddenly there was not only a little candle flame to break away the void, but an entire burning white sun. 

Fingers stroked his hair gently, that gravely voice like soothing honey against all of his wounds. "Pet, listen to me, you are going to be alright. Your master has you." Wilson reached up shakily to catch the hand in his hair, cherishing it and bringing the gloved fingers to his lips slavishly. 

"S-s-sa-sa-save-sa-save-" he choked on the gunk still in his throat and desert-dry mouth, "ee-muh-m-me." 

Wilson remembered this voice now, could not stop remembering. His master. William Carter, who had saved him from hounds and hallways and himself, who had been there. 

"Why do you think I'm here, pet. You're coming with me," and he took his hand away, only to lean down to lift his pet up into his arms. He was stopped from rising by that same pet pulling him close, forcing him to get on his knee, lest he topple headfirst into the younger man. 

Wilson was even more frantic now, touching every bit he could get his hands on, making sure it was real, that it really was his master, his savior, the blinding light splitting through the hellish silence. The touch was not enough, nothing could possibly be enough in that moment, but he did the only thing he could think to do and lunged upwards, grasping at his tie and smashing their lips together.

His master did not stop him, could not stop him, humming through the passionate locking of lips.

Wilson swore it was the most glorious moment of his life. 

"A-are we- are we- leave? Are we go-going to-" 

"Yes, my poor pet, we are going to leave this dungeon, I hope for good." Those words alone were enough to make Wilson, or what had been Wilson, burst into another bout of tears. "Come now," hushed William, brushing those pesky tears away, "come now Wilson, it is alright." 

And it was. 

It was alright. 

Wilson was taken in his master's arms, swaddled in a warm, fluffy blanket, and carried. He expected at some point that light would flood his vision, yet none came. He heard eventually the sound of a large metal door opening, then closing again. 

"Did you hear that? That was the door to the dungeon. You're out of that dark nasty place." His master murmured, stroking the back of his head as he continued walking. Walking away. Walking to freedom! 

Still, it nagged at him, frightened his already skittish heart a little, even through all the relief. "W-Wh-whu-why can't I- I see...?" There was a small gap between his question and his master's Wilsons. 

"I had to bandage your eyes." 

"W-what's w-wrong with-" 

"Later, Wilson, it's alright." 

Wilson nodded, and once more, it was alright. 

He was taken into a warm room and dipped into an even warmer bath. The grime and blood were scrubbed from his skin by his master's careful, thorough hand with soap that smelled of lavender. It was so relaxing, the water, the steam, the smell...he found himself dozing in and out of consciousness in a most delightful manner, aware of nothing but the care being bestowed upon him by his master. Tranquility. Pure bliss. All of these things and more, bundled up in one moment. 

After he was clean, he was taken from the tub and dried with a fluffy towel, hair wrapped up in another to keep it from dripping. 

He was dressed then in fine feeling clothes, like a doll in his master's hands. "Once we have you settled in, I shall pay your wardrobe much more attention than I have hitherto. You will be dressed in this century's finest garb, as is fitting. My finest pet shall not go about in rags any longer. You would look most striking in reds, blacks, browns, I belive they will match your complexion wonderfully..." as he spoke he sounded so pleased, Wilson had to agree, if only with a nod. 

Next, after being cleaned and dressed in soft, silky feeling clothing, as well as warm socks, he was taken up in Carter's arms once more and carried to a new room. 

"Now," William said, laying him down on a comfortable cushioned surface, "soon you shall be given a room of your own, it is being readied for you. For now, however, you will rest here, in my bedroom, on my divan." He nodded, thankful to lay on something that wasn't hard stone. "Do your eyes hurt?" The concern in his voice sounded so genuine. He _cared_. Wilson nodded again, because they did, though he could not remember a time when they had not hurt. "As expected. Well, I am going to give you something for that. It will ease that pain." 

"I-I-I'll fe-feel goo-good," he croaked, feeling William brush a strand of hair from his forehead. 

"Yes, you'll feel good," was the response, before, a kiss was pressed to his forehead and a needle jammed into his arm. 

Wilson smiled, feeling something get pushed into his veins before the needle left. 

A dizzy sort of feeling came over him, slow and steady, barely tangible, then a steady slipping away from conciousness, as though he were sailing out to sea. His master was correct, in his last moments before he went under, he felt good. William was near, he could feel his heat, could feel his cool hand pressing over his cheek before sliding away, followed by the sensation of a warm blanket being pulled over him. Nothing hurt, he felt as though he were floating, all trouble so far away...

**Finally, peace.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, the end...Yet not really, because I have more fics planned for this series. At the very least, this fic has seen itself to the end and I can continue onwards to the next few. Good things are planned, I assure you friends, from murder, to madness, to the entrance of two other entities who shall not be named ;). Writing this was an experience, I'll say that, and I learned a few things along the way. 
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and kudos, it really does warm my lil old heart to see such enthusiasm for my godforsaken creations <3


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